The Killers in the Haunted House
by silverluna
Summary: As Halloween nears, Bones, Booth and all the Squints would like to kick back and have some fun. But a malicious prankster has other ideas, and targets the team one by one. Halloween hell is menacingly near, especially when Booth involuntarily vanishes. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: Pranked

**The Killers in the Haunted House**

A _Bones _fanfiction

by Silverluna.

**Summary**: As Halloween nears, Bones, Booth, and the "squints" would love to have a little fun. But a series of malicious pranks target the team one by one, and threaten to turn their Halloween into horror hell— especially when Booth disappears—involuntarily.

**Disclaimers:** Do not own _Bones_ or its characters. This is a story for fun and not for profit. Song credit: Aqua, "Halloween" from their album Aquarius.

**Pairings:** Brennan/Booth; Jack Hodgins/ Angela.

**Season Setting:** After following Season Two's "The Killer in the Concrete", though much before Season Three's "The Mummy in the Maze." Zack is still a squint and not yet an accused serial killer, Jack and Angela are still together.

**Author's note:** Parts of this story have been kicking around in my head since _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, but I never found the "right" way to tell the story.  
Some areas might seem overly sensationalized, but I'm kind of taking some liberties. I am also not a forensic anthropologist and or a cop, just a fan of _Bones_. This is a Halloween story, though I am not sure when it will be finished. I enjoy Halloween at any time (though I don't celebrate it year round). I appreciate reviews and I hope you will enjoy this as much as I have. Happy reading.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

**Prelude**

#

_"(phone rings)_

_Hello?_

_Remember me?_

_Who's there?_

_I got your number_

_No! Oh, no_

_I'm back to haunt you_

_No! Stay away!_

_(laughter)_

_#  
_

_"It's Friday night_

_So creepy outside_

_It's thundering and lightning_

_There's nobody home,'cause I'm alone_

_It's scary and it's frightening_

_The sound of shoes, a shadow that moves_

_Something odd is tick-tock-ticking_

_Someone's in here_

_I'm so full of fear_

_The telephone is ringing!_

_#  
_

_"Now I can see you_

_Oh, no, please no_

_Now I can touch you_

_Oh, god, please go_

_I'm right here now_

_Oh, please, tell me where_

_(laughter)_

_I'm in a nightmare!_

_#  
_

_"You better run—I'm back to hunt you down_

_#  
_

_"Halloween_

_In the death of the night hear me scream_

_I'm coming, I'm coming_

_Halloween_

_Is the fear that I fight in my dreams_

_#  
_

_"Keep running, keep running_

_Just keep running, oh, keep on running, yeah_

_Just keep running_

_Just keep running, oh, keep on running, yeah_

_Just keep running"_

***

**Chapter One: Pranked**

The pranks started as small things, creepy but minor annoyances, in the beginning of October. Dr. Cam Saroyan was targeted first— her car was egged while parked at the Jeffersonian parking garage. The culprits used what seemed like twenty cartons of eggs, making sure not to miss the windshield, back window, door handles or the bumpers.

"It looks like my car has been slimed," Cam told Dr. Temperance Brennan on her cell phone. She stood staring at it in dismay. "It's disgusting, Dr. Brennan. I don't know where to start cleaning it." She reached out with a coat sleeve pulled up over her fingers to wipe off her driver's side side mirror, but thought better of it.

"Should I come down? Should I bring a roll of paper towels?"

Cam huffed. "Bring an entire box of paper towels."

Cam walked around her car, examining it from each angle. Every single inch of was egged. Including the wheels, the hubcaps, the grill. She didn't know what to make of it. Underneath one of the rear wheel covers, she found a folded piece of paper. Taking a handkerchief from her purse, she fished the paper out from its eggy mess, and unfolded it. Single letters had been carefully cut from a magazine, and glued to the paper to spell one word. Cam felt chilled suddenly.

It read: _Pranked._

***

The incident hadn't been caught on tape. The cameras in that area of the parking garage had been smashed; the only thing on the tapes were what looked like baseball bats flying at the lens, and then the frame was static.

They seemed perplexed, but they weren't scared. Not yet.

"Maybe it was a one shot deal? You know, like someone just wanted tick you off, just this once, right before Halloween." Jack Hodgins theorized. "Some old boyfriend you snubbed or something?"

Cam offered a half scowl as response.

Only a few days passed before another incident occurred. Angela Montenegro was on her way into work early that Tuesday. She was looking ahead of her, at the doors to the Jeffersonian lobby, and not on the sidewalk where she had just stepped. Her shoes slipped and her feet went out from underneath her and she fell onto her knees. Her teeth jarred together and a cold pain shot up her legs. The coffee cup she had been holding flew out of her hand and crashed onto the pavement, spilling everywhere. For a few seconds, Angela waited to catch her breath. She patted the sidewalk in front of her in an attempt to steady herself so she could climb back to her feet, but she drew her hand back quickly. It was wet and felt greasy. Angela turned her palm over and was startled to see an iridescent liquid on her fingers. The liquid gathered in a fat drop before sliding off. She made a face and tried to shift her weight, but the pain in her knees was too strong.

A little knot of fear welled up in her throat. She felt for her purse, which was still half on her arm, and shakily dug out her cell phone. She tried to swallow a few times before she had to speak while she listened to the phone ringing.

When Hodgins answered she said, "Jack, I'm hurt." She could picture his face tightening, and tried to shrug the pain out of her own. So he didn't panic when he saw her.

"Where are you?" She could tell he was already on the move.

"Outside. In front of the Jeffersonian. But don't just run out here— the sidewalk is slick. Just, just be careful." She took a deep swallow and then a deep breath and tried to ignore the pain.

"You parked in front?"

"Yeah. Um, I'm waiting for my new parking permit for the garage to clear." Her eyes were tearing up. Even though it hurt, she rocked back on her knees and steadied her crumpled body with a shaky arm balled up into a fist.

On the way outside, Hodgins stopped by Tempe's office. She looked up from writing notes when she heard his labored breathing.

"Hodgins?"

"Angela's hurt. She's out front."

"What?" Brennan got up and followed him. "What do you mean, hurt?"

"I don't know," he said over his shoulder. "She just called me."

They headed out the doors into a chill autumn air and saw Angela in a bent position on the sidewalk. Horror washed over Hodgins' face. It was about twenty steps down the path to the sidewalk and halfway there Angela waved at them with the hand still clutching the cell phone. "Be careful! The walk is slick. You'll fall down before you know what's happening."

Hodgins went ahead, carefully as instructed. He did slip a little when he was almost to Angela, but regained his balance. Slowly, he sank to his knees. "I'm all right, I think," Angela said while Jack touched her cheek.

"Can you stand?"

"I'm not sure. I fell pretty hard on my knees. It's, it's painful."

Brennan knelt at the end of the pathway, rubbing her fingertips on the sidewalk. She looked intently at the stain before taking a little whiff. "It's motor oil," she called, a little mystified.

Hodgins took off his lab coat and put it in a patch of oil in front of Angela. He wrapped his arm around her waist and told her to put all her weight on him. From a squat, he pulled her forward while carefully lifting her knees from the pavement. Putting one foot on his coat, he gingerly eased her to feet so that she was standing directly on the coat. Angela hunched her shoulders against Hodgins, and kept her knees bent. She had bit her lip hard to not cry out while he helped her up.

"Jack," she whispered, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Dr. Brennan! Call an ambulance!"

Brennan stood and nodded with purpose. She went back inside. On the way to her office she passed by Angela's desk. An envelope caught her eye; it was small and gray, and she was sure she hadn't seen it there before. Bunching up her sleeve, she grabbed the envelope and retrieved her cell phone. After she'd told paramedics the specifics, she set the phone down and opened the envelope which had no name on it by using her sleeve cuffs. Inside was a note on white lined paper, with individually cut letters.

It read: _Fallen Angel._


	2. Chapter 2: The Queen of Death

Chapter Two

_"Hell broke out this Friday night_

_Zombies passing, deadly_

_My Candyman from Bountyland_

_is coming here to get me_

_Now I can see you_

_Oh, no, please no_

_Now I can touch you_

_Oh, god, please go_

_I'm right here now_

_Oh, please tell me where_

_(laughter)_

_I'm in a nightmare_

_You better run_

_I'm back to hunt you down"_

Angela wasn't hurt badly. She would have bad bruises for days, and was given a prescription for the pain, with no refills. Nothing had snapped, or torn, or even outwardly bled. Most of it boiled down to anxiety over hitting the pavement that hard, from wondering if she'd heard bones crack. Hodgins brought her back to the Jeffersonian; she insisted that she didn't want to be home in bed. Her knees were bandaged and she was floating on a wave of painkillers, but she felt better being here among friends. The oil had been soaked up by the cleaning crew, who seemed as equally mystified as Dr. Brennan had been to find so much oil laid out like that. They filed a report, and worked on getting to the bottom of it.

By now, Zach Addy and Cam had joined Dr. Brennan at the lab. Hodgins helped Angela up the stairs to her desk.

"Are you okay, Angela?" Zach asked.

"I'm oka-day," she confirmed.

Hodgins shrugged a little. "They gave her some serious painkillers at the hospital," he explained.

Brennan bit her lip. She had already showed the note to everyone else. She got up and took it, now in a plastic bag, just like Cam's, over to Angela. She handed it to Hodgins. "Here. When I came into to call a doctor, I noticed an envelope on Angela's desk. This was in it."

He read it and passed it to Angela. "Fallen Angel?" she read aloud. "Who sent this?"

"I have no idea," Brennan said. "But even though it didn't have your name on it, it has to be for you."

"It's in the same style as the note I found on my car," Cam said. "So we have to rule out that the oil spilled was just an accident."

"Didn't you say that you didn't park in the garage because you're waiting on a new parking permit?" Hodgins asked Angela.

She nodded. "But I didn't tell anyone that. I was expecting to pick it up today, which is why I came in a little earlier than usual. But who could know that? I didn't tell anyone in our security department that I would be in around seven am to do the paperwork."

Everyone stayed silent; none of them could venture any answers. And besides, it was still too early in the game for the intense fear to set in, replacing all rational thoughts.

By eleven am, Dr. Brennan was so absorbed in a recent case that she had almost forgotten about Angela's fall, and the fact the rest of them should be wary of any activity around the Jeffersonian. She hadn't wanted to tell Angela, in a rare show of holding her tongue, that the oil spill may have just been a fluke. As for the note, it may have just been a sick joke, and maybe not all meant for Angela. Just like the note Cam found, there had been no fingerprints they could pull away, and no evidence to determine where it had come from. One thing did bother her, though. How could someone have gotten in here to leave the envelope? How was it that he or she remained unseen? Despite the nature of her work, Dr. Brennan left no thought of ghosts. Belief in ghosts was just irrational.

Dr. Brennan left the lab briefly to check on Angela after Zach stopped in to ask her a question about a test he was attempting. After adjusting Zach's calculations and getting Angela a bottle of water, she returned.

A long white box sat diagonally on the stainless steel table where she had a partial skeleton spread out. She stopped halfway there, regarding it curiously. Still wearing her gloves, she lifted the lid and retrieved a small card that sat atop red tissue paper. Her heart thumped a little faster. The card's letters were the same style as Cam's and Angela's "notes", except that these letters were smaller. The card read: _To Dr. Brennan, The Queen of Death. _Tempe pressed her lips together before sighing, "How lovely." She set the card next to the bones, pulling away the tissue paper to reveal six long stemmed roses. Three of them were black and the other three crimson, though instead of being regular red roses, they were wet with some kind of red syrup. Carefully, Brennan extracted a red rose to examine it. The flower seemed to swell from its blossom, and then a thick red syrup dripped down the petals and the thorns. The wetness slid down the stem onto her gloves. Brennan looked into the box and watched the other two red roses ooze the disgusting liquid. _That tissue paper isn't supposed to be red, _she thought.

Vaguely, she heard the electronic beeps of a person sliding a card through the security entrance, and then someone bounded up the stairs. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Seeley Booth got a quick glimpse of the box on Bones' lab table while she stood with her back to him.

"Hey, Bones, who sent you a special delivery?"

She turned slowly, still holding the rose. The liquid had pooled on her glove, and a small amount had dropped onto the floor. Booth's face fell as soon as he saw what she was holding. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a rose, and I think it's bleeding all over me." She set the rose back in the box among the others.

"That's disgusting," Booth said. He carefully stepped around the red liquid on the floor and looked directly into the box. Internally, he gasped.

"I don't know where they came from," Brennan said. "I left the lab for less than five minutes, and when I came back, these were waiting. Oh, and there was a note." She passed it to him with her non-syruped hand.

"The Queen of Death?" he read aloud. He frowned tightly. "I don't like this at all."

"Well, it's good that you're here since this is the second incident of today."

"The second? What was the first?" His brown eyes filled up with concern, wondering immediately what else may have befallen Brennan that day.

Tempe didn't catch the significance in his tone. "Angela fell this morning, outside the Jeffersonian."

"Falling down is hardly an incident, Bones."

She rolled her eyes. "I wasn't finished, Booth. There was motor oil on the whole sidewalk. It's like stepping on black ice you don't know is there. She fell onto her knees and ended up in an ambulance."

"Wh-what?" Booth spat out. "Is she all right?"

"Yes. Luckily, she wasn't hurt badly. The doctors sent her home. She's actually here, because she didn't want to go home." She paused, looking into the box again. "This is the third prank that has happened to us in a week. First, it was Cam's car, and then, Angela fell. Now, I get these black and bleeding roses."

"This is the third prank?" he repeated. "And you didn't tell me about the first one?"

"It happened a few days ago, Booth. It was gross, but we really didn't think much of it. Even Cam's note just said 'Pranked'."

Booth looked at the card he was still holding. "What was the prank?"

"Her car was egged."

"It wasn't just egged, it was annihilated," Hodgins added, coming up in from the hall with Angela in tow. Her painkillers were starting the wear off, making her feel woozy. Jack said he would take her to a pharmacy to get her prescription filled.

Booth looked Angela over. Her nylons were torn at the knees, and tight white bandages were wrapped around them. She moved gingerly, like a person in pain, but seemed otherwise unharmed. "What do you mean?" Booth questioned Hodgins.

"I mean, the pranksters didn't just throw a couple eggs at Dr. Sayoran's windows. They covered her entire car in egg product. All the shells were under the car, and near one of the wheels, she found a note that told her she'd been pranked."

"Right, the first note. I said that," Brennan said. Booth held up his hand.

"I got a note, too," Angela said wearily. "It was cryptic. All it said was 'Fallen Angel'." When Booth raised his eyebrows, she added, "Tempe found it on my desk when she went in to call an ambulance."

"Well, the pranksters added Bones to their list," Booth said.

"What happened, Dr. Brennan?" Hodgins asked.

She sighed, and picked up one of the flowers. "Someone sent me roses, black ones and bleeding red ones." She handed a bleeding to Hodgins, who held it up with fascination.

Angela made a face. "That's sick." The rose swelled and oozed, and syrup dripped out.

"You can get these at Spencers," Hodgins said. "I haven't seen one of these up close for about five years." When he felt all eyes on him, he blinked self-consciously. "What?"

"How would you know that?" Angela asked playfully.

"What's 'Spencers'?" Brennan asked, confused.

Booth sighed. "It's a gag gift store that you can find in any mall. You know, where you can buy things like plastic vomit or_Pirates of the Caribbean _action figures." He sighed again. "Parker wanted to go in once."

"What's_Pirates of the Caribbean _?" Brennan asked, confused again.

"It's a movie, Sweetie," Angela said gently.

"Anyway, did you get a note too?" Hodgins asked, trying to change the subject.

Booth handed the card to Hodgins. "Wow, that's dark, Dr. Brennan."

"This seems like more than a prank," Angela said. "It seems like a warning."

"A warning of what, though? Anthropologically speaking, a moniker like 'queen of death' can be completely rational."

"But you only work with the bones, you don't make them the way they are when they come in," Angela said. "If anything, you help to bring them back to life."

"We all do that, when we work together," Brennan replied.

"But someone thinks you're 'the queen of death', Bones," Booth said. "We do have a lot enemies, you know."

She set the rose back in the box, and shrugged. "Whomever it is is just trying to scare me. But I'm not scared."

Booth set his jaw, glancing at the box. He didn't think any of these pranks were funny, but it made him angry to think that someone out there was laughing. This was a pattern, and he was sure it could only get worse. And that made him a little scared.


	3. Chapter 3: Run, Run

Chapter Three

_"Halloween_

_In the death of the night hear me scream_

_I'm coming, I'm coming_

_Halloween_

_Is the fear that I fight in my dream_

_Keep running, Keep running_

_Just keep running, oh keep on running, yeah_

_Just keep running_

_Just keep running, oh keep on running, yeah_

_Just keep running"_

A week passed, and then another few days, with no goblins jumping out of darkened alleyways. Hodgins' analysis of Dr. Brennan's roses came back with no clues out of the ordinary. The "blood" was a corn syrup mixture, artificially dyed red. The black roses had been grafted, but the red were natural. No fingerprints came off the box, or the note.

"Another dead end," Booth had said.

"Not necessarily," Brennan said. "We might still come across something."

Booth shrugged absentmindedly. He was glad Bones hadn't been hurt, and that she was taking the box of "death roses," as she called them, with a grain of salt. That didn't mean that he'd forgotten about the maliciousness of its intentions, however. "Red corn syrup is the best ingredient they can come up with for bleeding roses? That seems so 80's or 90's horror movie, don't you think?" he tried to joke. Brennan raised an eyebrow. "I think I prefer the chocolate syrup they used in the _Psycho _shower scene. Looked more realistic without actually being realistic. Bones, why are you still giving me that look?"

"_Psycho_?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard of _Psycho. _Come on, Bones. It's a movie from 1960. It starred Janet Leigh. It was in black and white. No dice? Norman Bates Hotel. Alfred Hitchcock. Come on!" He stamped his foot and crossed his arms.

She shrugged. "No. I guess I never got around to seeing it."

"Never? What about _The Exorcist_? I bet you'd have fun dissecting that one. I'll add it to our list."

"Booth, what list?"

"Our scary movies to watch this Halloween list, Bones. Duh." He rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, a smile betraying his lips. "How about _The Shining_? Jack Nicholson. Redrum! Redrum! Ooh, what about _Halloween_? Michael Myers?" He started humming the theme.

"'Redrum'? I'm not familiar with that word. And stop humming. It sounds creepy."

"That's why you have to see the movie."

"Booth, when are we going to have time to watch this growing list of movies? We have the annual Jeffersonian Halloween Charity Ball on the thirty-first."

"Well, okay. What about the thirtieth? You, me, maybe even the Squints? Some popcorn, Raisinettes, a plastic pumpkinful of Halloween candy, a couple bottles of Merlot? What do you say?"

"Well..."

"What, do you have a date or something?" Booth asked playfully.

"No. It's just that, work—"

"Nah. Stop right there. You work all the time, Bones. You work in your sleep. Relax once. Have a little fun."

Brennan huffed. "I don't _always_ work in my sleep, Booth. And besides—"

Booth hushed her. "So it's a date. You want to tell the Squints or do you want me to?" He winked.

"I didn't say yes," Brennan had called after him.

"But you didn't say no, either," Booth smiled on his way out.

Angela was still walking gingerly, but she no longer needed painkillers. The bruises on her knees had faded from purple to an olive color, and the few cuts that needed stitches were on their way to healing. Sketchbook in hand, she ambled by Cam, who was on her way to Zach's office with an armload of mail.

"Hey, Dr. Sayoran. Do you need any help?"

Cam shook her head. "Do you?"

"No. I'm just on my way to run a sketch by Dr. Brennan."

"Okay. I'd like to take a look too. Is that a possible ID on our teenage runaway?" Angela nodded. "I'll meet you in Dr. Brennan's office after I see Zach."

Cam stopped in the doorway of Zach's office/ extra lab. She knocked on the doorframe to get his attention, as he was bent over calculations. "Oh, Dr. Sayoran. Hello." He stood up straight.

She smiled. "Hello, Zacharoni. I just stopped at the mailroom to get my mail, and I picked yours up too."

"Thank you, Dr. Sayoran." Zach furrowed his brow.

"Why? That's what you're wondering?" She couldn't help being amused.

"Well, yes. But I appreciate—"

"Your package from Chemerica arrived. I know you were waiting for it, so you can conduct some experiments that you will first be clearing with me." She raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," Zach stuttered. He seemed a little embarrassed when he took the package from her. "Um. Did you want to stand by while I open it?"

Cam smiled. "No, that won't be necessary." She started to leave.

"Dr. Sayoran? This wouldn't have anything to do with those, uh, recent pranks, like the box of flowers sent to Dr. Brennan, would it?"

"Don't forget my car," Cam rolled her eyes. "The detailing should be done one of these days." She sighed. "I just wanted to see your box personally, is all. I was assured by the mailroom that it came in with the other packages this morning via Fed Ex Ground. So it's not from a ghost."

"Like Dr. Brennan's box? Is that what you think?"

Cam laughed. "It's just an expression, Zacharoni." She left.

Zach set the Chemerica package on his lab table. Distractedly, he finished his calculations while retrieving a letter opener from beneath a stack of papers. He used one hand to cut the packing tape on one side, then set the letter opener down to make a correction to his pencil scratches. Satisfied, he went back to opening the box. The tape sealing the box was hard to cut, and Zach found he had to saw at it to even come halfway open. He figured it would be better if he could tear it open from the inside. He wriggled his hand under the flaps, surprised that his fingers didn't touch any packing material. When his hand just past his wrist was in the box, Zach's skin went clammy. His fingers brushed something unexpected; he was expecting the cool bottles of chemical supplies, or the bubble wrap they would be wound in. Something shifted beneath his palm, pressing a scratchy, furry ball against his fingers. It was almost like reaching for a bottle of iodine and ending up with a handful of steel wool. He didn't know what to make of it at first, but it wasn't a sensation he liked. Gripping the box with his left hand, he pulled his right hand back towards the box's partial opening. The contents, whatever it was, wasn't ready to let his arm go. Zach felt the thing— it was _alive_— latch onto his wrist, locking tight like a bracelet. A beaded line of sweat marched across Zach's forehead as he slowly worked to free his hand from the box. The flap tore a little more as Zach got his hand free— and then he heard a loud hiss, right before his furry bracelet sunk its teeth into his wrist.

Zach bit his lip, determined not to scream, and examined his wrist at arm's length. The thing was a huge brown squirming chunk, which was sending creepy-crawly sensations up and down his body. It was dangling by two of its legs, which looked like black velvet, its body stretching halfway up his arm. Zach felt a little ill and shook his arm vigorously, which angered the creature. It hissed and bit down before turning its beady black eyes towards Zach's face. Zach let the tiniest cry escape his lips, in fear, not pain; but it was guttural, struggling to hoist itself from his throat, like a growl. His face went white, and he felt a cold sweat under his armpits. Had he made the cry or was it this creature? He shook his arm, and the thing let go of his wrist— and scurried up his arm towards his face.

Zach's jaw dropped open, a labored breath falling out of his mouth— in and out, like he was choking. He watched it come at it him as if paralyzed. The creature was the size of a textbook, with a brown hairball like body and eight black legs, black eyes and small triangular teeth. Just inches from his chin, the shock gave way to panic; his mind screaming, _Run! Run!! _Zach let out a gurgling sound and turned quickly, but his legs were numb. The creature fell off him, brushing the skin on his arms all the way down to the floor. This time he did scream, just once, before he fell down in a dead faint.


	4. Chapter 4: Only the Beginning

Chapter Four

_"It's creeping and creaking_

_I move silent in the night_

_(laughter)_

_Could be the boy from next door_

_You'__ll never guess my disguise_

_(laughter)_

_Kiddies and children fight_

_Pumpkin and candlelight_

_You might be the fearsome one_

_At Junior High tonight!"_

Hodgins was barely into the hallway when he heard a scream, followed by the sound of a body hitting the floor. He hurried down to the lab and upon entering the doorway, he discovered Zach sprawled out, face down, on the floor. The younger man wasn't moving. "Oh, god!" Hodgins cried, rushing to Zach's side. While checking for a pulse, Hodgins heard something emit a loud _hiss._Not moving his hand, he turned his head towards the noise. At least five feet away an enormous black spider stared back, tense in what appeared to be a defensive mode. "Jesus," Hodgins exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. "That thing's the size of a cat." Zach's pulse was weak, his face white, and his skin cool and clammy to the touch.

The spider hissed. It raised itself, scurrying sideways like a crab. Hodgins didn't like that it was watching him, especially with its teeth bared. Not wanting to leave Zach, Hodgins called for help. Angela appeared first, worry clear in her eyes. She took in Zach and Hodgins on the floor first, but immediately looked passed them when the black mass caught her eye. She screamed. Both Dr. Brennan and Dr. Sayoran ran down the hall, nearly colliding with each other.

"Angela, what's wrong?" Tempe asked worriedly, reaching for her friend's wrists.

"Giant spider," she replied, and then backed up to allow Tempe inside the doorway.

"Zach!" Dr. Brennan cried. She knelt down opposite Hodgins. "What happened?"

Hodgins shook his head. "I heard a scream, and then a thud. When I got here about a minute ago, he was lying here like this."

"Oh my god," Cam said when she saw Zach. "I'm calling an ambulance." She rushed off.

"He's breathing, and has a pulse," Hodgins continued, "but he's out cold. I haven't tried to wake him yet."

Dr. Brennan carefully checked Zach's head for bumps, and found none. "Let's turn him onto his back," she told Hodgins, who nodded. She took one arm, he took the other, and Angela knelt and supported Zach's neck.

"He's so pale," Tempe said. "What could have caused this?"

"Uh, giant spider," Angela repeated. Tempe looked up and noticed it for the first time. She let out a little cry. "That's what I said," Angela quipped. "Is Zach afraid of spiders?"

"Not that he ever told me," Hodgins said. "But what if it's more serious than a phobia? What if that thing's poisonous?"

"What's that on this wrist?" Angela asked, pointing to a red spot on one of Zach's upturned wrists.

Brennan gripped Zach's wrist firmly, and peered at the spot. "It looks like bite marks. I can't tell if it's a superficial wound or not." She looked at the other two. "Let's see if we can get him to wake up." She slapped Zach's cheeks lightly, unnerved by how clammy his skin was. Hodgins shook him gently, and Angela squeezed Zach's hands to try to bring warmth back to his body. Instead of looking like a sleeping child, as she imagined he might look when asleep, Zach resembled a more haggard person who had received a terrible fright. Zach was still unconscious when Cam got back five minutes later, reporting breathlessly that an intern was waiting out front for the EMTs. "He's not waking up, Cam," Brennan whispered, her voice cracking.

"I brought smelling salts, just in case," she told them. Cam dropped to her knees behind Zach's head and waved the salts beneath his nose. A silent 35 seconds passed, everyone holding their breaths until Zach coughed. His eyes shot open; the memory was fresh. "Is it— is it—?" he gurgled. Boldly, Angela rose and approached the spider, who watched her and hissed several times. She took the empty cardboard box that had tumbled to the floor, pulled the tape rest of the way off, and clicked-clicked her way quickly to the spider. She shoved the box down over it, got to her feet, and pressed one high heeled shoe onto the top of the box.

"Do you know where you are?" Cam asked gently.

Zach writhed on the floor, wanting to sit up, but Dr. Brennan and Hodgins held his arms to the floor. "Lie still, man," Hodgins told him.

"I'm in the lab," Zach told Cam. "My name is Zach Addy." He looked to Dr. Brennan. "Please, Dr. Brennan, let me up."

She shook her head. "Not until you get looked at by the EMTs."

"No. I'm—ah, fine. I just want to get out of here."

"Why?" Cam asked.

"I don't want to be in the same room with it, Dr. Sayoran," Zach answered quietly.

"Angela covered it with a box," Hodgins told him. This didn't seem to calm him.

"Please," Zach drew out, "just get it away."

"What happened, Zach?" Tempe pressed.

Zach finally gave up struggling and took a few deep breaths. "I opened that box that Dr. Sayoran brought me because I thought it was from Chemerica." Cam flushed with anger. Zach shook his head, catching her reaction in the corner of his eye. "No, Dr. Sayoran, I'm not blaming you. I would have retrieved that myself when I was finished with my calculations."

"It's not that, Zach," she said. "It's that something else slipped passed us unawares. But, go on." She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

"Well, when I reached into the box, I felt this huge hairy clump that moved under my hand."

"Eww," Angela said from across the room.

"I tried to pull my hand out, but it clamped itself onto my arm. And then it sunk its teeth in."

"It bit you?" Brennan repeated, worried.

"Twice, actually." A shiver ran from his toes right up to his lips. His voice quivered when he next spoke. "After that, it's a kind of fuzzy. I tried to shake it off, it hissed a bunch of times, and then I recall trying to run, but everything was bright, and then grey. I don't even remember hitting the floor."

The hallway filled up with footsteps, the intern leading the two paramedics and their stretcher to the lab. Cam nodded her thanks to the intern, and the young woman left.

"Really, I don't need all this," Zach tried protesting.

"No arguing, Dr. Addy," Cam shook her head. "You may have hit your head, after all."

"And you need to have your wrist checked out," Brennan added. She and Hodgins released Zach's arms while the EMTs gave him a basic lookover and asked some questions before helping the young doctor onto the stretcher.

"I'm going to go with him," Hodgins said. "I'll call with any news." Cam, Tempe, and Angela watched all of them leave.

"Okay, now what?" Angela asked. "Because I'd really love not to stand here all day."

Cam gave a tight smile. "I called Animal Control after the ambulance. They said a half an hour, give or take."

"Great. This thing is trying to get out," Angela said.

Booth appeared in the lab doorway, looking worried. "Hey, I just say an ambulance leaving. What happened?" He spotted Angela with her foot on a cardboard box and raised an eyebrow.

"We're not clear on all the details," Angela answered when she saw Booth looking at her quizzically. "But we know it involves a live spider that was mailed to Zach."

"Zach? Since when is Zach afraid of spiders? Wouldn't Hodgins' work cure him of any little fears?"

"No, it's not what you think," Brennan said, looking him in the eye. "It's not a little spider. It's a big spider. A really big spider."

"It's the size of a chihuahua, Booth," Cam elaborated.

"What? Nah. You're putting me on, right?" No one smiled.

"Zach thought he was opening a box of chemical testing supplies that he'd ordered. But he said that this spider jumped out of the box, bit him, that he'd tried to run, but collapsed on the floor. We had a hard time waking him up, Booth," Brennan revealed.

"Hodgins went with him to the hospital. Zach was conscious, but the EMTs thought it was best if they had a doctor look at him. Besides, you have seen his skin. He was so white."

"Whiter than usual?" Booth asked, not trying to be funny. Three nodding heads were his answer. "So, the spider is here? In this room?" he questioned.

"Yeah. It's under this box," Angela said. She gave him a look. "Why, do you want to see it?" Booth nodded. She gave a little laugh and crossed her arms. "Sure, when Animal Control gets here, in, say, 27 minutes and counting. Unless you want to be responsible for it." She gestured with her shoe.

Booth was curious. He walked toward her, putting his hand on the top so she could remove her foot. She quickly joined Cam and Tempe on the other side of the room. "Booth, please. Just take our word for it," Cam warned as Booth removed his hand and lifted the box up. With an angry hiss, the spider lunged from the blackness of its captivity. Booth jumped back with a yelled, nearly falling over. The box tipped over an a thin scrap of yellow paper fell out. Brennan ran over, grabbed the box and recaptured the creature before it had a chance to hurt Booth. She glared at him and he managed a half shrug, as if as apology. She found a large paperweight in one of the drawers of the desk, and placed it on top of the box. The creature scurried, pushing the sides of the box but couldn't knock the paperweight off.

Brennan picked up the paper and scanned it, feeling some of her resolve drain away. She handed it to Booth.

"Sick," he mumbled. "Well, I'd say it's official: you've got a real nasty prankster on your hands."

"What does it say?" Angela asked, not sure she really wanted to know. Her heart thudded hard, realizing Hodgins was the only one left untouched. So far.

Booth turned the note towards them. It read, in ransom-style letters:

_You should have seen your face! _

_We have only just begun. _


	5. Chapter 5: Wolf Spider

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has offered such wonderful reviews! Hope you are all still out there. I haven't worked on this story in a while due to several personal problems that hit me all at once, and left me unmotivated for breathing, let alone writing this story. Currently, I am working on another story, one for the TV show _Psych_, but I would like to start updating this story again. I won't make any promises of regular updates, but this story is still on my mind. My attitude towards the writing of the other story that I am working on is just to let it flow and follow the characters to where they want to go. So I will try to take up that notion with this story, rather than trying to finish it by a certain date. I hope this process will make it an even better story. Thanks for again reading!

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**Chapter Five: Wolf Spider**

_"Halloween_

_In the death of the night hear me scream_

_I'm coming, I'm coming_

_Halloween_

_Is the fear that I fight in my dream_

_Keep running, keep running"_

_#_

When two men from Animal Control arrived, Cam helped them clear security and asked them to call her when they had figured out what kind of spider it was and where it may have come from. After she showed them to the lab, she told the others she would be in her office. The Squints and Booth stood back while two men in brown uniforms and brown gloves carried in a small cage, a black bag full of tranquilizers, and a small hook and tong in case the creature tried to bolt. The younger of the two went towards the box right away, lifted it, and didn't flinch when the angry spider lunged at him. He went after it with the tongs, but the spider dodged.

The older man let out a low whistle when he saw it. "Hell," he muttered, touching the back of his neck. "I've never seen something like this in the states before. I have seen a version in the Congo, though."

"What?" Angela asked, incredulous. She stood just behind the man, and he spoke as if he were relating an amusing story.

"Oh, yeah," the man continued. "It was on a hiking expedition to study animal and plant life. Our guide, as I recall, said this particular specimen" —he was fumbling, trying to get the right label for it on his tongue— "_Lycosidae,_ or wolf spider, is poisonous. He instructed us to stab any we saw with our walking sticks— a quick blow to the nucleus before it could strike. If it happened to get you on the legs, its bite would cause your legs to swell twice their size in five minutes." He walked away, towards the younger man to assist him caging the spider.

"Wolf spider?" Brennan asked.

The older man nodded. "The species is a variation that is likely a hybrid, like a Tarantula mix. I use that example because most people know of it."

Angela looked horrified and turned quickly towards Booth, who had been partly eavesdropping while watching the other man trap the spider. Brennan was standing a few feet from Booth. "Tempe," she began, but her voice was too soft. Booth turned around and looked at her face. Her eyes were swimming.

"It can't be the same kind," he tried to reassure her. "From what you guys told me, Zach only had a couple of small bite marks on his wrist, no swelling."

"Wait," Angela called, stepping between Booth and Brennan, reaching out for the man. He turned. "Does it kill you? The spider's bite?"

"Well, if left untreated, there is that possibility. Its teeth are sharp enough to puncture flesh, and it shoots a venom from inside its mouth right into that open wound."

"Does that swelling occur every time?" Booth interjected.

The man paused, thinking. "Yeah. Every time. It happened to one of our team members on the expedition. It wasn't a pretty sight, the guy writhing around on the jungle floor. But our guide pumped his leg full of anti-inflammatory antibiotic, and the guy was fine in a minute and a half." He sighed, and looked at the spider in the cage. It hissed, baring its teeth through the bars. "This probably isn't the same kind I'm thinking of though. That kind will attack without being provoked. And from what I was told by your Dr. Sayoran, your friend didn't have any of the typical symptoms."

"But he was unconscious on the floor," Dr. Brennan started.

The younger man couldn't help but chuckle. "Your friend have a fear of spiders that you don't know of? It seems like he got a shock and then passed out from it. I've seen it happen before, both women and men who claim they don't have a particular fear of such-and-such, but then faced with it, well, you know. You see a lot like that in this business." No one said anything. "It seems like a pretty mean practical joke," he continued, "especially if you know that someone will be _afraid_ of the thing and not just be a little confused from finding something they weren't expecting."

So it was then that the question formed in everyone's minds: Did someone _know _Zach would be afraid of the spider?

"He never seems to mind helping Hodgins with all his bug work," Booth said first. But they all still wondered.

***

Zach received a clean bill of health from the hospital and returned with Hodgins in a cab with only a bandage on his wrists.

"They can't find any evidence that he was poisoned," Hodgins told Dr. Sayoran via hospital pay phone. "The skin on his wrist was punctured by its teeth, but there was only a little blood. The doctors put antibiotic cream on it and wrapped it up, said it should completely heal in a couple of days." He listened. "Oh, yeah. No concussion. The doctor told me Zach fainted in shock, and that he was lucky that he fell unconscious. Why? Well, according to the expert, the shock of seeing that spider caused Zach's blood pressure to spike high enough to cause a heart attack." Hodgins cracked a smile, now that it was safe to do so. "Yeah, that's what I said. Apparently, when Zach fainted, the levels dropped immediately. I know, it is weird, right?"

Zach was quiet on the ride back. He wasn't the least bit embarrassed of fainting, though he could sure hold his own with their usual casework: blood, bones and bone matter, decomposed or charred flesh, maggots, leeches, and other creepy crawlies, not to mention the daily onslaught of murder weapon entry discoveries and what the weapons had done to the bodies. He thought that he should be embarrassed, but he couldn't be. And he was still having a hard time believing that a long ago fear had come true . . . right in his face.

When he was back in the Jeffersonian, they didn't pressure him to speak, and eventually, while he was tracing an invisible pattern onto a table top, he told them. Booth had gone back to the office, and Dr. Sayoran was absent because she was speaking to Animal Control.

"It was this thing that I hadn't thought about since I was a child, maybe five or six. I had this recurring nightmare on and off for a year of a spider as big as my face crawling out from underneath my bed and eating me alive while I slept. Sometimes when I was playing in the woods behind our house, I would become dizzy with fear that that same spider would crawl down from the tops of trees, or if I moved a rock that was too big, it would materialize. But as I got older, the dream went away. And I was fine, and still am fine, with small spiders. Or even tarantulas, which are slightly bigger spiders. It's just so strange, because I don't remember telling anyone about that fear. And as I got older, it just became irrational, and therefore, to me, unbelievable."

"Anthropologically speaking, Zach, the fear of spiders and of snakes can be scientifically linked to a primal fear dating back to the Monolithic era, when spiders and snakes were all poisonous and therefore, a dangerous threat," Dr. Brennan stated.

Zach nodded, but said, "I just have no idea how such an irrational and strange fear ended up in my head. Or why, twenty or so years later, it jumps out of a box and figuratively scares me from my skin. Why, if it's been dormant all this time, would it just suddenly return with the full force it had when I was only a child?"

"You must have told someone about it, hun," Angela said gently. She recalled how her private investigator had pulled up information she was certain she had never told anyone. "Your parents? A childhood friend?"

"Maybe you saw a picture of a spider that triggered your childhood fear," Brennan said logically. Zach thought, but couldn't seem to find this most recent memory.

Zach shrugged. "I honestly don't know if I told anyone. Or why. It would just be another reason for kids to pick on me." He shrugged, and even Dr. Brennan didn't press him to explore the logicality of the situation. Hodgins asked if he wanted to get back to work, and Zach gratefully nodded yes.

No one told Zach what the men from Animal Control had said. Angela smiled and touched his shoulder as he followed Hodgins back to the lab. "I'm glad you came back to us okay, hun."

Zach set his shoulders and nodded once. "Thank you. So am I."

***

Angela lingered after the guys had gone. She wanted to say something to her friend, but she couldn't get the words out. She had a strange urge to set the spider to paper while its image was still fresh in her. Unlike her usual drawings, this one wouldn't be of skeleton who needed its identity back. It would be an image she imagined hanging on bulletin boards, telephone poles, stacks on counters in police stations. It would read: _Have you seen this spider? _Or, _WANTED: malicious, will attack without being provoked._ The urge to follow through with this was overwhelming; Angela saw Zach's pale face, then the _Lycosidae _with its bared fangs and taunting hiss.

"Angela?" Brennan asked. Brennan's hand, in midair, froze.

Angela blinked. "I'm sorry, did I just drift off? I was thinking about Zach."

Brennan nodded. "It's understandable." She paused, then said evenly, "This is the fourth prank, if you can even count those roses I was sent."

Angela nodded. "Yes, I do count that." She moistened her lips, and looked her friend in the eyes. "Who wants what with us?"

"'Who wants what with us?'" Brennan repeated confusedly.

Angela shook her head so the golden triangles on her ears jingled together. "Sorry, hun, I realize that didn't make much sense." She sighed. ÒI just mean, why would we be getting pranked? Even with Cam, and you, those were nasty things, even if you guys didn't come to physical harm." Absently, she patted her knees.

"Pranksters in some societies can be seen as weak persons, outside of norms, wanting control over others and having to settle for the most malicious and humiliating way possible."

Angela frowned a little. Sometimes she wished her friend was schooled a little more in the ways of being social, and less like a forensic anthropologist who dealt solely with cold hard facts. It was wrong to think this way, she knew, because Brennan was intelligent and caring with a big heart, even if her words didn't always give this away.

Cam poked her head into Brennan's office. "Can you two please come to my office? I have Animal Control on the line and I want everyone to hear what they said to me." Brennan stood. Cam left to find Zach and Hodgins.

The two women went down the hall, each taking chairs opposite Dr. Sayoran's desk. Cam strode to her desk less than 30 seconds later. Hodgins stood behind Angela's chair, and Zach lingered halfway into the room. Cam pressed the speaker phone button and then instructed, "Okay, we're all set. Go ahead, Mr. Sloane."

A rumbling, loud but warm voice filled the room's silence. "As I said before, Dr. Sayoran," he began politely, "we just finished lookin' over the spider we retrieved from the Jeffersonian. My handler's hunches were correct— this is the kind of spider one would find in the Congo."

When there was a slight pause, Hodgins asked, "Is it poisonous?"

"Well, yes, that would normally be the case, sir, but this critter ain't poisonous." The room, except for Cam, who had already heard this, let out a collective sigh of relief. Zach pushed his hands together to stop their trembling. "You see, this particular _Lycosidae _has had that poisonous sack removed— the same way some'un have the stinky part of a skunk removed— the natural defense mechanism of the creature— if they wanted to keep it as a pet."

Angela crinkled her nose. "Are you saying that someone was keeping this spider as a pet?"

"That's the way it seems, ma'am," Sloane replied. "It's as harmless as a Daddy Longlegs— it's just bigger, furrier, _scarier_. Honestly not some'pun I'd want in my home, crawling on my furniture." The expert paused. "So tell your friend he don't have to worry. And that if gives me the creeps too." Hodgins turned to Zach with a small smile and punched him in the arm.

"Hey, I'm a bug guy, and it creeped me out too, man," he added. Zach returned the smile.

Cam thanked Mr. Sloane again and hung up.

"What kind of freakshow keeps a hairy spider with fangs as a pet?" Hodgins asked. "Makes my skin crawl."

"You're not the only one," Cam agreed. "Animal Control told me that they were able to trace the sale of that spider to an exotic pet store, Alan's Oddities, downtown, but that's as far as they got. I called the store, and the owner was able to give me the name of who purchased our little friend."

Zach shuddered.

"How can we be sure it's the right one?" Brennan asked.

Cam raised an eyebrow. "Luckily for us, that spider is one-of-a-kind. It was sold to a Mr. Stan Carlson in the last week of September of this year."

"And they are certain there's only one?" Brennan pressed.

"Apparently, it's very rare, exotic, as per what Animal Control said. Alan Devetrow, the owner of the exotic pet shop, raved about the spider as 'a shining jewel in a collection of dull stones'. His words, not mine," Cam assured everyone when they turned incredulous eyes to her face.

"Does that mean this Stan Carlson has an entire collection of spiders?" Hodgins asked before anyone else, his eyes gleaming a little.

"Ugh," Zach muttered, feeling dizzy for no good reason, he assured himself.

"I think Booth will want to know about all this," Brennan said. "He was pretty freaked out when I told him about the other pranks. Maybe he and I can go do some digging into this before anything else escalates."

Cam nodded with a look "good thinking" look, then said, "You should get all those notes together and have Booth see what he can make of them."

Angela's face wore a kind of scared frown. To her, things had gone far enough, and she wanted whomever was responsible in a jail cell. Not still out there, waiting for the weakest moment to strike.


	6. Chapter 6: What If The Lights Go Out

Disclaimer: I do not own Shivaree's song _Goodnight Moon._

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**Chapter Six: What If The Lights Go Out**

_#_

_"There's a nail in the door_

_And there's glass on the lawn_

_Tacks on the floor_

_And the TV is on_

_I always sleep with my guns when you're gone_

_#_

_"There's a blade by the bed_

_And a phone in my hand_

_A dog on the floor_

_And some cash on the night stand_

_When I'm all alone the dreaming stops_

_And I just can't 'stand_

_#_

_"What should I do? _

_I'm just a little baby_

_What if the lights go out and maybe_

_And then the wind just starts to moan_

_Outside the door, he followed me home . . ."_

_**#**_

Two days passed quietly. Angela's knees healed, and Zach's puncture marks were shrinking.

No fingerprints were found on any of the notes, which were all stored in their own separate sealed evidence bags. No fingerprints or other trace evidence were found on Brennan's roses or the box in which Zach found the spider. All they had were nasty acts against them, little reminders of the events other than their memories, and warnings to "expect more".

The notes were all vague, except for Zach's, which was an obvious threat.

_Pranked._

_Fallen Angel._

_Queen of Death._

_You should have seen your face! We have only just begun. _

Almost as if the pranksters were getting tired of their own cryptic game. It was as if they wanted to evoke fear, and have the team know someone was not only watching them, but laughing at their misery.

So far, no leads as to the identity of the prankster. There was a list at least twelve hours long as to how many enemies the team, or at least Brennan and Booth, likely had, from criminals they put behind bars, to their friends on the outside or families or others whose lives were ruined in the pursuit of justice. The wolf spider mailed to Zach had really upped the game plan, and Booth knew that this was about more than simply scaring a couple scientists. Brennan wasn't scared; she'd taken the roses with mild distaste, though Booth knew she was angry about what had happened to Angela and Zach. They'd discussed this over coffee and pie in the diner. She was as annoyed as Cam about Cam's car, but she still had no fear.

When Booth pressed her, Brennan stated that right now, having undue fear or worry was irrational.

"So you would rather wait until something really scary happens to—"

"—Feel fear?" Brennan finished, with a question bending up her eyebrows. She took a long sip of her coffee.

Booth nodded.

"Well, yes, I guess," she answered, then paused. "Wouldn't you, Booth?"

"What? Wait?"

"Yes. I mean, don't you have to do that as a special agent anyway?" Now he was looking at her with questions. "Isn't it part of your job to be calm and rational when everyone else is falling apart around you? Like someone who may not have had your same training?" Booth's face split into a grin and he laughed aloud. "What? What did I say?"

The laugh was still in his warm brown eyes when he spoke, "Well, Bones, when you're with me _you're_ always calm and rational."

She blinked, not understanding. "Yes. I am. So?"

He laughed again. Brennan scrunched her face so she looked a little angry. "Nah, Bones, don't be mad. I'm just saying, you're there when I'm chasing thugs with guns, and you aren't even scared then. So I just don't know why—"

"Hey!" Brennan objected, seeing where Booth's train of thought was leading. "Don't even imply that. I care about my friends."

Booth dropped the smile from his lips, but not his eyes. "No, I know you do."

"Why?" she asked, going back to one his earlier questions. "Are _you_ ever scared chasing thugs with guns?"

Booth smiled again. "Are _you_?" he teased.

"Well, I do get an adrenaline rush, if that's what you mean," she replied seriously. She knitted her brows together. "Do you?"

Booth laughed aloud again. "Yes, Bones, I do."

Brennan sighed. "Those letters we got following the 'pranks' just don't seem to have any unifying aspect."

Booth nodded. "Cam gets one that says 'pranked' after she was obviously pranked. Angela's one says "fallen angel" after she slips on motor oil that was obviously not there accidentally."

"And then I get those syrupy roses and a weird note that says, 'queen of death'. I don't understand if they are— these people we don't know but may know— if they are saying if that's my occupation . . . or if I am some harbinger of death." She mulled it over some more, pressing her lips together and pushing them side to side, almost if she were chewing something. Tempe rose her eyes to Booth's. "Do you think they could be saying that whatever happens to my friends will be my fault?"

Booth's immediate reaction was to shake his head, and tell her no. But he did wonder, in the back of his mind, if that's what these pranksters thought. If these were enemies of hers that she had made, or that the two of them had made together, that were coming at her through her friends. So that her resolve of no fear would be erased completely. He set his jaw, determined not to let them worm their way that far into her psyche.

* * *

Jack Hodgins was running late for his date with Angela. She had called him halfway to the restaurant, Genja's, a swanky Italian place not too far from the diner where everyone hung out. "Sweetie, remember? It was your idea," she reminded him. "I wanted to stay in, get Chinese take-out and cuddle. Uh, uh, don't you dare cancel. I'm all dressed and almost there. I'm going to go in, get a table." She laughed. "Oh, you want to know what I'm wearing, do you? So you can recognize me? Less talk, more action, babe. I'm pulling into the parking lot now."

Hodgins squealed into a parking spot, yanking his keys out of the ignition. Running a hand through his semi-wet curly hair, he started towards the front doors. He stopped, and cursed. Had he grabbed his wallet out of his other pants pocket? Hodgins hesitated. Angela would kill him if he had to drive back to his apartment for something he should have. He patted down his pockets, and felt his wallet in a back pocket._ Phew,_ he thought. _Dodged a bullet there._

Angela looked over her menu for the second time, taking another small sip of her vodka cranberry. She resisted checking her watch again; partly she enjoyed looking at it because it had been a gift from Jack, a gold petite band with tiny golden roses and miniature pearls encircling the watch face. But looking at it also made her a little peeved that her boyfriend almost forgot their date. She had taken a table near a window, hoping to catch him when he was walking in so she could signal their waiter and get on with their date.

Jack, getting there so late, had to park in the back. The parking lot was just across the street from Genja's. The only other parking was on-street, and those spots where hardly ever free. He was just crossing the last row of cars and had entered the street after checking it was clear when a pair of brights turned on, right in his face. He raised his hands to eyes, momentarily blinded. Where was he in the road? Right in the middle? He edged back towards to the last row of cars. He hadn't paid any mind to the purr of the engine before; the lights swung and he could hear the car getting closer. Hodgins couldn't see a thing; he felt blindly behind him for the solidness of a grill or a hood, but his hands came up empty.

Tires squealed. An engine revved, then roared. The vehicle getting closer, closer, very fast. How would they see him, with his arms over his face, standing there with a target practically painted on his forehead? Hodgins screamed, or tried to; he had no idea if his voice made it out of his throat over the roar of the engine. He was paralyzed, waves of fear running down his legs and up his arms. He was going to be crushed, road kill under merciless wheels, _splat_. Just like that.

Hodgins could feel the heat of the engine right in his face. All sounds around him were harsh, shrill. His heart leapt into his mouth, then he was in the air, jumping back into blank space. The vehicle squealed by, the smell of burning rubber washing over him like nausea. He was shaking all over, his teeth knocking together as if he were freezing. He brought his hands up to his head, then ran his hands down his arms, then his legs. He was whole, completely intact. He sat up, realizing he had landed on something solid; the hood of a tiny red mini-Coup. Hodgins looked himself over and over again. He was not bloodied, was not even scratched or banged up, let alone just a gloopy smear puddling in the road. His heart was thudding in his throat a million miles a minute, his brain jiggling like Jell-O. He tried his voice; he could see his breath, white in the dark night.

The mystery car was gone. Tire marks burned into the pavement. The car that held nearly _killed_ him. The word deadened him for a second, and then he heard his voice yelling. "Help! Help! HELP!" His voice continued until there was a crowd around him; then Angela was at his side, touching him, worrying over him, making him feel like he was still attached to his skin. Her face was a pale moon over him; he continued to tremble violently.

"What happened? What's going on?" "I don't know." "Did you see what happened?" "Did you?" "Did you?" These were unfamiliar voices; they must be patrons who had come out to understand the commotion. "Was there an accident?" "Is anybody hurt?"

"Jack, are you hurt?" Angela was saying. Then shaking him. "Are you hurt?"

His blue eyes were about to pop. He swung them to Angela, whose expression he figured was mirroring his own. "They—they tried to kill me," he said. His voice was too loud. Or was it too soft?

"What? What happened?" She was squeezing his arm so tightly it hurt. He was strangely relived that that was the only pain he was feeling.

"They tried to run me down. They were— waiting for me."

"What?" Angela cried again. "Did you see anyone?"

Jack shook his head; it was a jarring effect. "It was too dark."

Two patrol cars shot up, with their bright red and blue lights spinning fast. Jack watched uniformed police officers climbing out of their cars. "Call Brennan," he told her suddenly. She stared at him and nodded. Her hand went in her purse, her cell phone was to her ear, and then AngelaÕs hand was back in Jack's holding him tight.

* * *

Angela had no idea how Brennan and Booth arrived on the scene so fast. It was as if they flew. In reality, Brennan had ordered Booth to floor it, and he didn't need to be told twice. The whole way there, Brennan's knuckles were white from holding onto the door handle, her teeth gritted so tightly that by the time they were in the parking lot, her jaw ached.

She had been at her lab with Booth, talking about some older cases and trying to figure out if any of those criminals or their loved ones would take up such a vendetta.

By the time they arrived, police officers had helped Jack down from the hood of the car that had saved his life, and walked him over to a bench outside of Genja's. Angela never left his side. The officers were questioning him a third time when Brennan and Booth ran up. Booth identified himself as FBI and quickly explained to quizzical looks from the officers that he was there to investigate noxious acts that had been occurring against the forensic scientists at the Jeffersonian. This was more or less the truth, and it served well for now.

After giving Hodgins a quick once-over, and seeing that he looked unharmed, at least physically, he left Brennan with Angela and went over to talk to one of the officers.

"Is Dr. Hodgins all right?" he asked a cop named Benny, who had a thick frame and crew cut blond hair. "Did he say what happened?"

Benny nodded. "He's shaking real bad, but he's okay. The car missed him by inches."

His partner, an African-American woman with small features but an authoritative look, added, "Dr. Hodgins says he thinks the car was waiting for him to walk into the road."

A chill ran up Booth's spine. "He said _what_?"

"That's what he said," Benny confirmed. "Said it was heading straight for him. He's lucky he has good reflexes; his jumping onto that car hood is likely the only reason he isn't dead." Benny gestured towards the hood of the red mini-Coup, where its owner, a balding older gentleman, seemed to be surveying for any damage. The man glanced over at Hodgins for a long moment, back to his car, and sighed softly. He patted the car as if it were a faithful dog.

"Holy shit," Booth cursed, barely under his breath. The female cop looked at him with a serious frown that read, "Honey, that's what I said." "So this is looking like an attempted murder?" Booth already knew it was, down to this bones, but wanted their opinions.

Benny and his partner, Craft, nodded. "I think it's definitely more than just an attempted hit and run, that's for certain," Craft said. "It's really too bad he didn't get a good look at the driver or the make and model. 'Cept he's shitting lucky to be alive." Booth nodded tightly, swinging his glance toward the trio at the bench.

"Are you all right?" Brennan was asking for about the fifth time. Her eyes went to Hodgins, then Angela, then back to Hodgins.

"I—I guess," Hodgins replied. "Scared—scared out of my mind though." Brennan nodded vigorously. Jack shook his head slowly, becoming suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was. "I don't remember jumping out of the way. I can't believe someone would try to run me over."

"It was the adrenaline," Brennan said rationally, before she realized she didn't need to explain this Hodgins. Angela touched her arm gently, and Brennan gave her a knowing, sympathetic look. She looked over Jack again. He had stopped trembling, and his breathing and heart rate were slowing to normal. She noticed something. "Dr. Hodgins, what's that in your hand?"

"Huh?" Jack asked, and then became aware that he was clutching something in his right hand; that its pointed and rounded edges were poking at his palm. He unclenched his fist, and the three peered down at what he was holding. It was a crumpled piece of paper. They stared at for a few moments as if it were a body part or a bloody piece of skull fragment. Gently, Brennan took it from his palm with two fingers, and pulled the paper open. Her eyes widened as she realized the note bore the same ransom style letters as the other notes that had been received; the only difference was that each individual magazine letter had tiny creases from being balled up for such a long time.

Booth approached, his face grim. "What's that?" he asked, peering over Brennan's shoulder.

"It's another note from the prankster," Brennan replied quietly. Jack was staring up at it as if she were holding fire. Booth read it over her shoulder; his face split into an angry scowl.

"What does it say?" Jack burst out suddenly, his voice a little hoarse. Brennan handed it over to Angela, who read it slowly, and then crumpled it halfway without thinking. Hodgins took it from her hands, uncrumpling it so fast he tore it a little at a corner.

_Scared you to death? _

His hands shook again, though this time with anger, as he read and reread the note.

"How did you get that?" Brennan asked Hodgins, trying to make him focus before he yelled and tore up the letter, which he looked on the verge of doing. When he loosened his grip on the paper, Booth snatched it from his fingers. "I don't— I don't know. Maybe it was thrown from the window when the car drove past. That car that almost hit me." Hodgins slammed his fist on the bench, making Angela jump and Brennan flinch.

Brennan looked Booth in the eyes. This was very serious. _Were the pranksters just trying to scare Hodgins . . . or were they trying to kill him?_ She gave Booth a wide-eyed stare that told him now was as good a time as any to show her hand, ante-up to the inevitable fear.

"Hodgins, the cops tell me you're resisting getting checked out by EMTs. Why don't you let us take you to the hospital?" Booth eased.

"No," Jack snapped.

"We can leave the scene now?" Brennan asked.

"They already asked him all the necessary questions," Booth confirmed. "They're going through everyone else, looking for a witness. Angela?" Booth asked with raised eyebrows.

She shook her head. "I wish I could say I saw something. I didn't. I heard plenty, though." She couldn't suppress her shudder. She squeezed Jack's hand harder, and felt tears come. _If something had happened to him, if he'd been hurt . . ._ tears welled up in her mouth, her face red and tight.

Jack ran a hand over his face. One of them, maybe both, was soaked with sweat. When Booth started to repeat his earlier proposition, he snapped again, "I am NOT going to the hospital! These wannabe psycho killers already sent two of us there. I'm not going to be the third." He crossed his arms definitely, the anger on his face effectively replacing all of the terror that had been there less than five minutes before.

The air was tense until Brennan broke in gently. "Well, can we go back to the lab then? Maybe we can talk in private." She shrugged at the crowd of onlookers hovering about twenty feet from them, though some were a bit closer. Booth nodded. "Okay, let me just make sure we're cleared for take off." He turned on his heel before Brennan had the chance to correct his phraseology.

She looked at Angela, then Jack. The anger had fled and had been replaced by fright. Jack's eyes were opened too wide. She despised seeing her friends like this, all worked up like nothing could ever bring them back down to be their old selves. Brennan felt an old stab of fear; when the Gravedigger had taken her and Hodgins and buried them alive in her car. The fear of airlessness, of pure panic and not being able to finish one clear thought other than, _Oh, my god, I'm going to die here like this_. Brennan reached out and squeezed Jack's other hand hard.


	7. Chapter 7: Could It Be, You're Suffering

**Chapter Seven: Could It Be, You're Suffering, When You See Me**

**___________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer:  As always, references made to _Bones_ or its characters do not belong to me and I am not profiting off of this story in any way, except for the joy of writing and sharing my story. I do not own references or lyrics to the Hungry Lucy songs _Journey _and _Could It Be? _Some spoilers/ references to Season Two and Season Three. I also do not own Ziploc or Xerox.

Author's Note: Zach is no longer Dr. Brennan's medical assistant/ graduate student but has earned his doctorate degree and has been hired by Cam to stay on as Dr. Brennan's assistant, though he is now a doctor too. The others do not usually refer to him as Dr. Addy because to them, he is just Zach, and that is more familiar to everyone.

_____________________________________________________________________________

_#_

_"Could it be, you're suffering_

_When you see me_

_Again and again?_

_Could it be, you're suffering_

_When you see me_

_Again and again?_

_#_

_"I took a drive last night_

_Went by your place,_

_You weren't home_

_You can't hide from me_

_You'll get yours_

_Eventually._

_#_

_"Could it be, you're suffering_

_When you see me?_

_I know your fears_

_You'll cry your tears_

_So helplessly."_

#

_The free fall into blank space, nothing solid around you. The not knowing of what you were falling into. Only the leap you know, your feet grounded before, _Hodgins thought, spacing, as he walked with Angela, her arm locked to his.

The night security at the Jeffersonian offered dull looks to the four as they entered. Brennan had convinced Hodgins and Angela to come back with them; despite both of them having driven separate cars to Genja's. Hodgins was in absolutely no condition to drive, and Angela, though she insisted she could, was too tense, her shoulder blades pushed together like dueling samurai swords, and every few seconds, she trembled down to her fingertips.

Brennan went up to one of the conference rooms down the hall from Cam's office and flicked on all the the lights. The room lit up with pale yellow florescence. For a moment, she hovered in the doorway, steadying her breath. She was relieved to find the room not only empty but free of any nasty pranks or disturbing notes. How could this have happened? Who could be behind it?

Up until this night, Brennan thought very little of the pranks, besides that they were mean. True, both Angela and Zach had been hurt enough to need doctors' attention, but still . . . she hadn't wanted to believe the prankster or pranksters would be malevolent enough to seriously injure anyone. She frowned at her own assumptions.

But tonight . . . what if Hodgins hadn't been able to jump out of the way? What if he had ended up pinned between the row of cars and the one trying to run him down? An unwanted image flashed of Hodgins' body cut in two . . . . Brennan shook her head hard to make it go. There was no sense in this; Hodgins was safe. Terrified, but unharmed.

"Hey, Bones, what are you doing up here?" Booth asked, letting his fingers rest on her shoulder. She backed from the door and faced him. The night was already showing on her face, and Booth's mirrored hers.

"Just thinking. I didn't realize I was taking so long."

Booth smiled grimly. "Don't worry, I think those two won't mind taking things slowly."

"Right," Brennan said distractedly. "I thought we could sit in here, have some privacy. Some of the interns and assistants work late, and sometimes they are in and out of the lab. I didn't really want to share this—"

Booth nodded. "Good thinking, Bones."

Brennan started towards her lab where they had left the files they'd been looking into before Angela's call. "Booth?"

"Yup?"

"Do you think we should call Cam? What about Zach?"

Booth thought about this. He hated to break up separate their nights, though he suspected that both would want to know right away that there had been a new development in the prankster incidents case (it had just, as of this night, become a case, in Booth's eyes), and that it involved Hodgins. "Yeah," he finally said. "This isn't really the thing that waits till morning."

Brennan sighed, as if she could read Booth's thoughts. "No, it's not."

"Okay, I'll call Cam while you get those files."

"And I'll call Zach and get the copies of those notes from my office too." She had been keeping copies in a folder; after this she suspected Booth would have them all fill out statements about what had been going on; ironically, Hodgins had been the first one.

"What?" Cam asked over the phone, adjusting her earring. It was a little loud in the restaurant she was in with her date so she wasn't certain if she'd heard correctly. "Seeley, say that again."

"We need you down here if you can get down here," Booth repeated, rolling his eyes at his own double repetition. "Hodgins was almost run down by a car. Afterwards, he found a note— it's the latest prank, Cam." His tone was grim.

"What?" Cam repeated, but this time she was alarmed. She stood up and leaned across the table towards her date, an incredibly attractive man with short dark hair and twinkling eyes and whispered in his ear she'd need a rain check on their evening due to an emergency at work. She kissed his cheek and hurried out into a light drizzle. "Was he hurt?" she asked, once outside.

"No. Not a scratch. He's just on edge. In fact, we all are."

"Okay, I'll be there soon." She started her car.

"Do you think this means they are done with us?" Angela asked Hodgins quietly in the otherwise empty room while they waited for Booth and Brennan to get all the information together.

He couldn't seem to collect his thoughts enough to answer her.

"I mean, they went through everyone—" Angela stopped, closing her eyes tightly. She seemed to be fighting tears. She brought her knuckles to her lips.

Hodgins took her loose fist and kissed it. "Ang." She squeezed his other hand again, looking in his eyes. "What if it means," he began just as quietly as she had, "that they'll just start over?"

Her brown eyes were huge with question, then dawning fear. "You mean with Dr. Sayoran? And then—?"

"Keep scaring us until we all die." Just as the words were out of his mouth, Brennan and Booth entered the conference room. They stared at him, startled.

Brennan said with reproach, "That's speculation. You don't know that will happen." She sat down in one of the chairs across from Angela and Hodgins and spread out the files, and the Xeroxed copies of the notes, expect for the latest, which had been put into a Ziploc bag for now. Hodgins stared at it with hatred.

"It does _feel_ like it could," Angela defended Hodgins quietly. She had knot in the center of her chest that she wasn't sure how she was going to get rid of. _Jack_. _What if—_ She hated "what ifs", but if he had been hit? Then what? "It feels like it's become something more than just a sick joke."

"It's a game whose rules we don't know," Hodgins said. "We don't know the short cuts, we don't know how to play, so we're probably going to lose." He dropped his head into his hands.

"Bones is right," Booth said. He remained standing, as if he expected Cam or Zach to walk in any second, though it would take them each at least twenty minutes to get here. Cam, for her part, was very concerned, and Booth suspected she would lead foot it all the way. Zach had been told vaguely that there had been another incident tonight, this time involving Hodgins. "We can't—"

Hodgins' eyes blazed. "We don't know a thing about this person or persons. Not one thing other than they get off on tormenting us with sick pranks and disturbing notes. 'Scared you to death?' Come on, what does that tell you? How do they manage to get by unseen? These people are ghosts."

"They can't be ghosts," Brennan said, being literal. "Because ghosts don't scientifically exist." She glanced up from a file to see that Booth was hovering by the door.

"Sweetie, what he's saying is figurative," Angela clarified. "The pranksters seem to be 'ghosts' because we haven't seen them but they keep getting to us." She shuddered, then patted Hodgins' hand, because he had begun to rise in his chair as Brennan spoke.

"Booth, why don't you sit down? Cam and Zach know where this room is."

"Are they coming here now? Both of them?" Hodgins asked. "Why?"

Booth frowned and repeated, "Because this is not something that waits till morning." He glared at the scientist, whose glare back was diluted with after effects of the attack on his life barely a half an hour ago. "You're right, Hodgins."

"He is? About what?" Brennan interrupted.

"We don't know anything . . . but the stakes just rose. Zach and Angela went to the hospital, true, Cam and Bones ended up with an egged car and a gag gift, but for all we know these jackals may have been trying to kill you."

Hodgins snorted. "Or scare me to my death. Literally. Huh." His brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Brennan looked up from scanning a file.

"What if— what if what they did to me, trying to 'literally scare me to death' was what they hoped would happen with Zach?" They all thought about it. "What Zach's doctor told me while I was at the hospital with him was that Zach was lucky to have lost consciousness. His heart rate was so accelerated by the scare that the incident may have led to a heart attack."

"That's right," Dr. Brennan recalled, "Cam mentioned that."

"That's sick stuff," Booth said with distaste. He sighed, a little ticked off at himself that he hadn't taken Zach's prank more seriously. What if death had been the intention for Zach? Perhaps if he'd looked more at it more objectively, he may have been able to protect Hodgins. But then, he thought, how could he, or any of them, predicted what dangerous trick the prankster would choose? He shook his head. They didn't know anything yet, and the game was already played through its first round.

Booth heard footsteps in the hallway. He went out to look, then came back. "Zach's here," he told them. "I'm going down to the lobby to wait for Cam. I can brief her before she gets up, so it will save some time. You go ahead with Zach. Hey, Zach," Booth told the young doctor as he brushed passed him.

"Hey," Zach mumbled to Booth before entering the conference room. His eyes fell on Jack. "You look completely intact," he stated to the entomologist.

In spite of himself, Hodgins smiled. "I am."

"Dr. Brennan said that you were pranked tonight? A hit and run?"

Hodgins snorted again, getting to his feet. He paced a few steps and then said, "I was almost killed tonight." He glared at Brennan until she looked up, unabashed. "Oh, I just told him we needed him to get down here."

"Dr. Brennan said there would be explanations once I was here." He raised his eyebrows. "Were you hurt?"

Jack sighed, not knowing why he was frustrated with Brennan, because she was just being herself and not trying to purposely upset him. "No. A car tried to smush me in Genja's parking lot, but I jumped out of the way. In time," he added unnecessarily. He pointed to the half crumpled note on the table. "I got that as a souvenir."

"Way to run from a psycho killer, Dr. Hodgins," Zach said, surprising everyone. He peered over one of the black leather office chairs to read the note, mouthing the words.

"Psycho-killer wannabe. We don't know if these idiots have killed anyone yet." His hands shook and he sank back into his chair next to Angela. He managed to stay still for a few moments before jumping up again, just as Angela reached for his hand. While he paced, she drew her hand back and laced her fingers together.

"But he or she can be capable," Zach said. "And definitely willing."

"Definitely," Jack agreed, running a hand through his curls. He blew out a loud breath. "It's just, how did they know?"

"Sorry?" Brennan asked, noticing for the first time that Hodgins was pacing, as if unable to sit still.

"How did they know that I was running late to meet Angela? The car was waiting for me, I know it was."

Brennan held his gaze, which was wild. She opened her mouth to protest that they couldn't know that for a fact, that the car was actually waiting for him. Instead, she blurted out, "Do you think you were followed?"

Everyone turned to her. "What are you saying?" Angela asked, her face suddenly pinched.

"Well, I—" Brennan looked down, then back up. "I'm not certain what I'm inferring." She thought about while everyone continued their stares, each unable to voice their obvious concerns. "What I'm saying is—" She focused on Angela, before turning to Hodgins and Zach, "It's highly possible these prankers are— they know us."

Her words hung in the air until Booth entered with Cam and broke the unease by correcting Dr. Brennan. "The word is _pranksters_, Bones," he said lightly, before adding that she was likely correct. These pranks were too personal. They were acted out in mostly intimate settings where people were unguarded, at work, or just walking in or leaving work. The only exception to this rule so far had been Hodgins— except with this detail, Hodgins had been on his way to meet Angela in a familiar area. Plus, two days had passed and they had let their guard down. _Why had the pranksters waited?_ Booth wondered. _What had they gained by waiting?_

"They enjoy violating our personal space— our safe space," Zach observed from Booth's conclusions.

Cam caught Jack's eye and gave a nod, asking the silent question, "Are you all right?" Hodgins nodded back, certainly pale but physically unscathed.

"You really think it's someone we all know?" Angela asked, perturbed. She cast a glance around, not as if she suspected that the prankster was among her but to remind herself how many they were as a team. _Who_, she wondered, _do we all know, who could possibly hold such a grudge and act it out in such a nasty, dangerous, and childish way?_

"It makes sense," Cam said, sitting down across from Zach, who had taken the seat on Angela's other side. "There are patterns— a prank occurs, and then a note appears. All of them have those same ransom style letters."

"Right," Booth agreed. "There's a plan at work here, not random acts of some sick Halloween joke."

"But they've gone through all of us," Angela said, glancing at everyone again. She squeezed Hodgins hand; he was standing behind her chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Jack said earlier that maybe they will start over but—"

"But the pranks will be meaner. Deadlier." Hodgins speculated, and shivered.

Zach nodded. "What if they really do scare us to _death_?" The word "death", as it left his lips, was so hushed that if the room hadn't been absolutely silent, it would have passed into the ether, unheard.

Brennan sighed. "It would be better if we could figure out _who_, and _what_ it is he or she wants. Or they." She glanced at Booth. "There is too much in these files. I feel like we are wasting time looking for a needle in smokestack."

"Haystack," Booth, Cam, and Angela corrected at the same time. They were able to spare each other thin smiles.

Brennan rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean." She sighed, and looked to Angela, Hodgins, and Zach. "Do you guys have any theories?"

"Us?" Zach asked just as Hodgins opened his mouth to interject something irrelevant about a conspiracy theory.

"Yes," Dr. Brennan said. "Are there any intense cases that we are worked on together—um." She stopped, feeling silly for phrasing it that way.

Booth swooped in, getting their attention. "I get where she's going," he told them. "Any cases were you felt your personal safety threatened?"

"Or any where you got that 'oh-so-creeped-out' feeling you couldn't shake?" Cam cut in.

"Gormogon," Angela said. "But that's ongoing. Are you just talking closed cases here? Or cold cases?"

"Howard Epps," Hodgins added. He looked to Booth, then Brennan. "Remember how he tormented all of us, to mess with you?" He frowned, remembering the serial killer's games.

"Ugh, how could you forget?" Tempe said, making a face. "That man was seriously disturbed."

"He did mail me that human heart," Angela reminded them with a shudder.

"But he tried to kill us— every clue lead us to to a more dangerous situation, like when I cut into Carolyn Epps' head," Cam recalled. Booth winced with the memory, knowing that he had nearly been responsible for her death because of his fears about Epps going after Parker.

"Or when I tried to get the vile out of Carolyn's body," Zach said thinly.

"But Epps is dead," Booth said. "I should know."

"I don't know," Brennan began, "this just doesn't add up to a copycat. Does it?" She scanned their faces. "This culprit, I agree he or she is definitely following a pattern, but it's not Howard Epps'."

They were all silent for a few minutes, thinking everything over.

"What about the Gravedigger?" Zach asked softly. "Revenge, for outsmarting him when—?" He looked down, not wanting to say the rest aloud. It was only conjecture, but he felt he needed to offer something.

"No," Cam said. "The Gravedigger doesn't deal in pranks or scares. Of this kind," she added. She blew out a long breath. "The pranks went from petty to deadly so quickly," she stated.

"Right, petty with the eggs," Hodgins said, "then nasty with the motor oil."

"Then gross and chilling with Tempe's roses," Angela weighed in.

"They seemed to be only toying with me," Brennan said. She had a difficult understanding why, if someone was so angry with her, that her "prank" hadn't been worse, frightening or life threatening.

"And then, mean, with the spider," Cam continued.

"And now, deadly. Or attempted fatal. Still not sure about it," Hodgins finished, anger and anxiety in his tone.

Brennan sighed, frustrated."See, there's just too much." She stared hard at Booth, her eyes asking what she couldn't bear to say allowed in front of all her friends. _What if we can't figure this out before the next prank?_

Booth stared back, his brown eyes warm but flecked with concern. He gave a little head shake, trying to be reassuring. "Okay, let's just think this through. Make some lists, take some notes, compare— and see if we have anything. Maybe it's not a high profile case we worked on. It maybe something minor—" His voice trailed off while his mind tried to work through all the possibilities.

"It is better than just sitting here being afraid," Cam acceded. They all nodded in their own ways.

The team spent a few hours bouncing ideas and theories off of each other while eating semi-cold pizza they'd ordered, since each had been cut from his or her own dinner plans. When everyone seemed restless, as if they were starting to hate being cooped up with frustrating theories and possible criminals who had it out for them, they collectively decided to call it a night. Both Angela and Zach had wondered aloud how the pranksters had known the things they did— echoing Hodgins' earlier talk about the car waiting for him. How had they known Angela would be entering from the front of the building on that particular day, rather than from the parking garage? How had they known about Zach's dormant arachnophobia . . . as well as how did they know Zach was expecting a delivery from Chemerica? It was puzzling . . . but mostly, disturbing.

* * *

The letter was placed in a desk drawer in the Jeffersonian, under paperwork, files, but edged out just enough to be visible due to the color of the paper it was written on. It was counted on that this letter would be found and dissected, but not now. Later, after the fears had petered out and all that was left was rabid anger, disbelief. Shame, that the right decision was not made in the first place. The pranks, the scares, the terror, all of it could have been spared of those closest to her. The desk drawer closed, and its author moved away, assured.

#

_Be ready to fly_

_Above everything_

_Don't have to know why_

_Don't have to carry on_

#

_Dearest Dr. Brennan,_

_This is a little note from me, for later, when this is all over, when I've been caught. I just want you to know how angry I was . . . well, I suspect you already know this, from all that has been done. All I wanted, Dr. Brennan, was to be at your side, working diligently, solving cases and putting faces to the victims, those skeletons in pieces, as broken in death as in life. I just wanted to please you; but first, I needed to cool my anger. I tried, believe me, but it burned and before I knew it my insides were charcoal and ash. Death. Red hot, I reached out, smoke wafting from my hands. But you still wouldn't see me. I had to make you pay; I had to watch you suffer, and laugh at all your tears and pain. Then, I knew when it was over and you had seen what I had done, all for you, you would respect me. You will admit aloud that you made a mistake when you picked others over me. I enjoyed myself, you should know that. I smiled during your periods of pain. I loved watching each of you burn in your own ways. I loved lurking about, essentially invisible, as you all ran about like children, in terror of some unknown specter with deadly intentions slanting in the shadows in some haunted house. _

_#_

_No matter how hard I tried_

_A thin veil remained between_

_myself and The Infinite_

_#_

_—D._

* * *

Around three o'clock the next day, Booth appeared at the Jeffersonian to collect Bones. "Bones, let's go," he said.

"Go? Where?" Brennan asked, distracted. She had Angela's sketch in front of her of the teenage runaway, along with the girl's recovered bones. The sketch was run through the FBI missing persons database and was a partial match to four different girls, all reported as teenage runaways, some missing since the mid 1970s. The only bone fragments they had of the girl were half of a skull without teeth and the radius and ulna bones of a forearm, carpals and metacarpus, down to the fingers, with the actual fingertips cut off.

Booth drummed his hands on her counter top. "Today's the day we go question Stan Carlson." When she offered a blank face, he reminded her, "You know, giant spider collector guy? Giant spider that was mailed to Zach?"

"_Lycosidae,_" Tempe said, nodding. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Do you have a search warrant too?"

Booth smiled toothily. "I love how you think ahead!" he praised her. He pulled the folded warrant from his pocket. "Judge Caroline was just as happy to grant it when I related the Like-os-day spider story to her. Except I told her its real name, wolf spider."

"_Lycosidae_ is its real name, Booth," Brennan told him, walking down the hall to her office to get her coat. Booth trailed behind her.

"Maybe to you scientist types," he teased her, "but if you say 'wolf' and 'spider' in the same sentence, it really makes people's eyes pop. Like what you just said came straight out of a horror movie or something."

"Did it?" Brennan asked, slipping on her coat.

"Huh?"

"I mean, is that a common plot of horror films you've seen? Giant wolf spiders that cocoon human victims and drink their blood?"

Booth scrunched up his nose at her back, not sure of how to respond. Finally, he offered, "I thought you've never seen any scary movies?"

"I'm just theorizing that that is a probable plot, especially for the 1950s Cold War science fiction era," Brennan said, turning around. "Ready?"

Booth was staring at her curiously. "Have you been talking extensively with Zach about this subject?" His mouth split into a smile when she hesitated.

"Well, I was discussing some of this with him earlier," Brennan admitted.

Booth laughed out loud, leading the way back to the lobby.

"But it was helping him!" Brennan protested, following Booth. "Angela would call it 'talk therapy'."

Booth continued to laugh, but threw a playful glance over his shoulder. "Relax, Bones, I'm not making fun of you. Talk therapy is good. I'm just surprised is all."

"About what?"

Booth heard a slight pout in her tone and smiled wider. He pushed open the glass lobby doors, holding it for Brennan. "Nothing, Bones. It's just, the other day, when I mentioned classics like _Psycho_, you were completely clueless. And now we're conversing about Cold War era Sci-Fi as you are the big expert."

"What's— what's wrong with that?" Brennan had caught up to him, walking at his side. It was yellow bright for an October afternoon, with a soft blue sky. The air was crisp. Brennan adjusted her autumn jacket and got into Booth's FBI-issued SUV.

Booth pulled open the driver's side door and got in. "Nothing," he said again, with another big grin. "It's cute."

Brennan scrunched her nose, not sure what to say.

* * *

Ten minutes into the drive, Brennan's phone rang. "Brennan," she answered. She listened, and made an annoyed sound. "Can—can you please speak up?" she asked directly. She listened again, pressing the phone hard against her ear.

"Who is it?" Booth asked, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Can this wait?" Brennan asked a little harshly. "I'm on my way to question a suspect with Agent Booth." She listened, and then huffed. "Okay. Okay, all right. I'll come back." She hung up and slid the phone back into her purse.

"You have to go back?" Booth asked, sounding disappointed.

Brennan sighed, incurably annoyed. "Yes. I'm sorry, Booth. That was one of my student-interns, one who works in the pit with all the cold cases and unidentified skeletal remains." She didn't elaborate on that detail, but Booth suspected that that was the reason it had been hard to hear the intern. "He says he's certain one of the skeletons he was working on identifying has the same M.O. as the runaway Angela had been sketching from only half a skull." She sighed with a frown. "He says it's very important and if I can be spared to come back, then I should." She fidgeted. "I'm sorry. I wanted to go with you."

"It's okay," Booth told her. He made a U-Turn and headed back towards the Jeffersonian. "It's just routine anyway." He winked in her direction. "Maybe he'll be our guy and confess everything when a big scary Fed knocks on his door."

Brennan released a small smile in spite of herself. "He'll likely run first. They always run."

Booth returned her smile. "True— but then I bet he'll confess. And then when I get back, I can give you the good news— that's it's all over." Though life didn't usually work out like this, Booth hoped this scenario was true. He enjoyed looking at his partner's face when she was happily engaged with intellectual discussions, rather than all twisted with the anguish of not knowing what was going to happen to her friends— all because, she thought, of her.

He dropped her in front of the Jeffersonian's steps. "Good luck," she told him, waving as he pulled back into traffic. He smiled, and waved back.

Later, she would think of this moment, over and over, wishing she'd taken a longer look, wishing that she hadn't let him go alone, that this smiling face of his was not the last memory she had of him.


	8. Chapter 8: You'll Never Guess

**Chapter Eight: You'll Never Guess My Disguise**

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Disclaimer: I do not own references to _To Kill a Mockingbird_ by Harper Lee or to 1970s Pontiac Gran Prix or Stephen King's _Carrie_. This chapter has some references to minor season 4 characters. Minor spoilers for Season 2's "The Killer in the Concrete".

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Brennan was more than a little huffy when she got back inside. Instead of going to her lab, she stepped in the elevator and took it down to the basement labs; though as she waited for the car to arrive, realized she wasn't certain of the intern's name who had called her. Chewing her lip, she pushed the button to take her back upstairs. The elevator doors opened at the basement as two student-interns walked by, one carrying a large stack of files.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan!" one of the interns greeted cheerfully. "Is there something you need? Because you kind of seem like you are looking for someone?"

Dr. Brennan waved her off, slightly annoyed though the intern was trying her best to be helpful. "I'm— one of the interns just called me, regarding the half skull case that Dr. Addy and I are working on. But I didn't catch his name." She had stepped out of the elevator and was walking with the interns toward the pit. Then, trying to be more personable, she explained that she hadn't caught his name because the connection was bad. Did either of them happen to know which of the interns had found an unidentified skull in the pit with half its bone structure missing?

"No," the male intern told her. "I hadn't heard anything about that, and I've been in there all day. Vincent just asked me to get some new file folders, but—"

Brennan made a face and turned on her heel. Then, for her effort, she threw a half smile over her shoulder and added a rushed, "Thanks," before hurrying back to the elevator.

"That's weird," the male intern said, readjusting his grip on the folders. "I wonder what that call was about." He looked towards the young woman on his right side, surprised that she was fighting the urge to grin. "What's with you?"

"Dr. Brennan was here. Down here. She actually graced us with her presence."

The guy raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh?" When the woman lost her fight and smiled outright, he continued, "You know she's just a person, right? Like you or me? I know she's a high ranking forensic anthropologist and all, but she's not a god or anything."

The woman nodded and didn't speak at first. Then she added with awe, "She's the most intelligent person I've ever met."

* * *

When Brennan got upstairs, she went to the lab to find Zach. Luckily, he and Hodgins were not testing some outrageous theory to see who would be King of the Lab today; instead, he was bent over calculations when she knocked on the door.

"Come in," he said, "I'll be with you in about twenty seconds. Nineteen."

"Zach? I just got a call—"

Zach stopped and swung around on his stool. "Dr. Brennan?" he asked confusedly. "I thought you were going with Agent Booth to question that horrid spider man today. Weren't you?" he added when she hesitated.

"Well, yes, I was." As she fidgeted, he swung back and added a few more numbers to the chart. "But one of the interns called me. From the pit, I think. It was hard to hear him."

"From the pit?" Zach repeated, turning back. His youthful face was all scrunched up.

"Yes," Brennan replied, frowning. "He told me that I should come back to the Jeffersonian because he had found an unidentified skull down there that matched the modus operandi of the skull that Angela has been sketching."

"The runaway with the missing face?" Zach said, getting to his feet. "Really?" He gazed back at Dr. Brennan for a few moments while she attempted to work out what was going on here.

"Maybe I misheard," she finally stated. "The connection wasn't so good—"

Zach frowned. "Who called you?"

"I can't remember if he said his name or not," Brennan said tightly, looking away.

"Oh," Zach said, dropping his eyes. "Well, let me go down there and ask, then," he told her, trying to be reassuring. She nodded, but almost told him what the male intern had told her when she went down there; if he'd really been down in the pit all day, then how could a call be made from there if he didn't hear it? _Well, maybe,_ Brennan thought, _I was mistaken. I just thought it was the pit because of the connection— _She walked to her office with a mild unease pressing against her ribcage.

* * *

When Zach came back upstairs, he was a little agitated. He ran a hand nervously across his face as he stepped off the elevator and scanned his lab ID card. After the stairs, he paused. What was he going to tell Dr. Brennan? He had been down there for about fifteen minutes, asking everyone, male and female, if anyone may have called Dr. Brennan, for any reason. Everyone he'd asked had said no, which he'd found strange. Then, on his way to the elevator, Vincent Nigel-Murray had stopped him.

"Dr. Addy?"

Zach had turned to the graduate student as he pressed his fingers together and spouted randomly, "Did you know that, during the American Civil War, while 185,000 troops died in combat or of battle-related wounds, 373,000 troops died of disease?"

Zach furrowed his brow and frowned. "Um, no. Did you have—?"

Vincent blew out a quick breath and told him that when Michael had come back with the file folders, the intern had mentioned to him that Dr. Brennan had been down here, and that she was certain someone had called her. "Well, I thought it was odd," Vincent explained. "So, I looked into it."

Zach resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Thanks, but I just asked around, and no one seems to know anything."

Vincent shook his head. "No, I found something. Well, actually, the absence of something, Dr. Addy." When Zach looked more confused, Vincent led the way back towards the pit, which was a large lab where all the unidentified skeletal remains were kept, each "set" of bones in its each labeled metal box. "Apparently Dr. Brennan's mysterious caller had told her that another partial skull had been found during classification," Vincent told Zach, who nodded, already knowing this. "I have seen the skull and the radius and ulna bones of Dr. Brennan's in the upper labs."

"How?" Zach asked, a little suspicious all of a sudden.

"I was upstairs to ask a few questions of Dr. Sayoran," he explained, "and I happened to pass by when she was examining the metacarpals." Vincent carefully opened a metal drawer and slid out the tray of the cleaned remains of a Jane Doe. Most of the bones had been recovered, with the exception of the feet, but Zach noticed two things right away.

"Where is the skull?" he asked, while focusing on the Jane Doe's metacarpals. "The distal phalanges are missing, just like that of the runaway in Dr. Brennan's lab."

"Did you know that hummingbirds can't walk?" Vincent stated.

"Yes," Zach blinked, "I actually did know that."

"Well, when I studied the chart on this Jane Doe," Vincent continued, refocused, "the distal phalanges of both hands and both feet were not recovered"— he pointed to the bones as laid out— "but the skull is listed as being part of what was recovered."

Zach stared at him, then back to the headless skeleton.

Vincent swallowed another fun fact and took a deep breath. "There is one more thing, Dr. Addy."

"What?" Zach was trying hard to make sense of all this. Had Vincent stumbled on all of this by accident, or was there something the graduate student wasn't telling him? Then again, Vincent was heading up most of the work in the pit and would likely be familiar with these bones and have to know them pretty well.

"The skull that was here was only a partial," Vincent told Zach. "It may actually be related to the case with your runaway's bones."

Puzzled, Zach bent in closer as if there were answers to be had on the tray. Then he stood back. "I should tell Dr. Brennan," he said, then eyed Vincent, wondering if the graduate student knew these bones as well as Zach thought, how did he not notice someone removing a skull? Vincent didn't seem to notice the dubious look in Zach's eyes, but Zach left wondering if Vincent could possibly be holding a grudge of some kind against Dr. Brennan. He tried to dismiss his apprehensions because right now, he didn't have any proof.

Zach went through the conversation again in his head on his way to Dr. Brennan's office. He paused again at her lab, where the runaway's skull and forearm bones were spread out on her table. He hadn't realized he was standing there for such a long time until Dr. Brennan tapped his shoulder and he jumped.

"Sorry," she apologized as he turned around. He shook it off and apologized to her, and then explained everything that had happened in the basement, though he left out his suspicions about Vincent, for now.

"Really?" Dr. Brennan said when he was done. "This skeleton Mr. Nigel-Murray found may be related to our case? Our runaway may not be the only victim of the unknown killer?" She pondered this while Zach reminded her that the Jane Doe's skull was missing.

Finally, she snapped to attention. "Okay, let's go take a look at this Jane Doe. Go on, I just want to tell Cam, and then I'll get my notes." He nodded, and she went to tell Cam where she would be.

"A break in the case?" Cam asked after Brennan told her.

Brennan shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. It will be harder to tell because the skull is missing," she said matter-of-factly.

"Missing— you mean, not recovered?" Cam asked, shuffling some papers. After Brennan spoke again, Cam asked her to repeat it because she wasn't sure she heard right.

"Zach told me that Mr. Nigel-Murray said the skull was classified, but it's missing from its tray."

Cam frowned, a long crease appearing across her forehead. _A missing head?_ That sounded a bit like some sick joke. "All—all right," she said distractedly, waving Brennan on her way. Maybe she should make some calls to beef up the security, at least until these awful pranks ceased. _Yes,_ she thought with purpose, _I will._ When she had the phone against her ear, another thought struck her. _Why was Dr. Brennan back here? _Cam could have sworn she had just left with Seeley to go question a suspect. She sighed, and started to dial.

* * *

Booth watched Brennan's silhouette walk up the steps of the Jeffersonian in his side mirror as he pulled back into traffic. When she'd waved, he felt a little pang; he had wanted her to be as side during the questioning process; if Stan Carlson was the guy, maybe the spider man could tell her to her face why he had it in for her. Booth rolled his eyes at himself; as if anything was ever that simple. He sighed. He really hoped this guy wasn't some kind of loony, with an entire house of aquarium tanks filled with spiders of all kinds. But then, maybe it wouldn't be the large collection of spiders that would make Carlson loony; it would be the fact that he found it droll to mail one scientist a wolf spider and try to run down another, not to mention the rest of the pranks' intentions.

Booth sighed again; something didn't seem right. Well, besides the fact that someone was getting their kicks messing with Brennan and the squints. He shook his head and focused on the drive.

A half an hour's drive took Booth from downtown Washington, D.C. to a more rural area with houses few and far between. Some of these were well kept, others, not so much. Turning off the last paved road, Booth fumbled with the directions which were on the passenger seat. He weaved his way down a long twist of gravel road, before ending up on a dirt road that had a small "private" sign at its beginning. Booth steered his SUV to a small old farmhouse that, in his opinion, was little more than a shack. The paint was chipped and the whole place, including the windows, bore the signs of multiple dust storms. It was hard to picture someone residing inside, day in and day out. If this was really Stan Carlson's residence, then the man was not even within a stone's throw of neighbors. The last house Booth had passed was at least a mile back; and that one at least offered signs of life. Outside, next to a flattened field of yellowed stalks, sat a battered gray Pontiac Gran Prix, 1971 or 1972, at most. Booth guessed corn or wheat, but he couldn't be sure. It didn't look like anything would actually grow out here. Getting out of the SUV, Booth adjusted his gun and took a quick glance around him.

_It's as if I've stepped into another time,_ he thought, getting an eerie feeling on the back of his neck. Absently, he ran a hand through his hair, not really understanding why his fingers shook a little. _I didn't know places like this existed in D.C._, he thought as he walked to the door, brushing some stray dust from the sleeves of his jacket. He climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door, surprised that one of the rickety looking steps didn't break. When there wasn't an answer, Booth knocked again and called out, "Stan Carlson? I'm with the FBI. I need to ask you some questions." Booth listened, but there were no sounds within. "Stan Carlson!" Booth yelled into the door, "FBI! Open the door! I have a federal warrant!" Without thinking, he pulled his gun from his holster and slammed his shoulder against the door, though he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was standing directly behind him, breathing on his neck. A quick glance over his left shoulder revealed nothing, but he wished Bones had come with him. Not that he was scared, but with everything that had occurred lately at the Jeffersonian, with the pranks getting more and more serious, he wondered if there might be a safety in numbers. Inwardly, he smiled a nervous grin— lopsided, he was sure, even in his inner tier. Outwardly, he felt sheepish— and thought that he had no reason to be anymore on edge than when he'd broken down other doors, with or without accompaniment.

After three hard rushes, the door swung in on its hinges with a rusty squeak. Booth repeated his speech to a dusty dark interior while a fetid smell invaded his nostrils.

Booth felt a trickle of cold sweat slide down the back of his neck. The interior was silent and still. He fumbled around in the pitch blackness; heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, as if any sun that were to leak in contained some kind of poison. _Jesus,_ Booth thought, running his hands over the walls nearest to him,_ did I stumble onto Boo Radley's house?_ Keeping his gun ready, Booth walked into the darkened hallway. The house seemed larger on the inside, vast like a system of tunnels. He came across a few half open doors; one was a half-bath. Booth leaned inside and tried the switch; it didn't work. Another door was to a storage room, in which was cardboard boxes were piled nearly to the door. The door didn't open all the way but Booth let it go and continued his mystery walk. Something hair-like brushed his cheek. He flinched; chiding himself for being so jumpy. He reached up and discovered it was a string that was hanging from the ceiling. Booth paused mid-tug, hoping that there wasn't a bucket of pig's blood attached to it above his head. Had he made a mistake coming here alone? With the darkness and the pungent smell— distinctive and thick—choking him, Booth tugged the string.

The string was attached to a crude, bare bulb. He was standing in the center of a small living room. He blinked at the harshness of the exposed bulb, seeing double of a sofa with a broken leg set up across from a rabbit eared TV set. The light was immediate, and before he could fully register the broken junk, the half packed boxes, or the thick layers of dust on everything, he saw it and gasped. Just a short walk, really, not more than twelve feet from the door was a body— face down, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. Its arms were over its head, as if swimming, and its legs were still as if this man had only fallen asleep. Booth felt bile rise in his throat; this man— this body— with its shock of thin white blond hair, with its half closed eyes— seemed he had died of fright. Except for the split in the back of the body's skull— a wide open gash likely to made by an axe— and the pool of blood and brain matter the body was lying in.

Forcing himself to step around the corpse, Booth checked the other rooms shakily, though he held his gun cocked and steady. He steeled himself at closed door, but the knob turned easily. Some of the light from the living room spilled into the open door; Booth guessed this was a bedroom. Casting a glance back toward the body, Booth took a hard swallow and went into the bedroom. The light switch didn't work in this room either; Booth took a quick pass and would have left had he not seen a human shape on the bed. "Hello?" he asked, going towards it. He remembered suddenly that he had a flashlight on his key ring; as he pulled it out the keys jangled together strangely. So much noise in an empty house. Well, almost. Booth pressed a button on its side and penlight turned on. He jumped back. Covered up by an old sheet was a skull. _What the hell—?_ Booth wondered, bending towards it and squinting for a closer look, as if what was missing wasn't completely obvious. _Where the hell is the rest of its face?_ He peeled back the sheet, but this was the only bone he found there. The rest of the shape was made up of a plastic skeleton, though its plastic skull had been removed. Sighing and trying to shake off peculiarities, Booth walked back to the main room, holstering his gun.

"Okay, so no physical presences," he said aloud. He was surprised at how soft his voice was. His hands twitched again. He got out his cell phone, dialing Brennan's phone. She didn't answer, so he called the Jeffersonian. Cam answered. He asked for Brennan, nervously running a hand through his hair.

"Sorry, she's in the lab with Zach, Seeley. She asked not to be disturbed." She paused. "What's wrong? Are you at Carlson's house?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Practically out in the middle of nowhere. And there's a body on the floor. I haven't made a positive ID, but it's probably Carlson." He gulped. "It looks like he took an axe to the back of the head."

"What? He's _dead_? All right, I'll call the local authorities."

"Hold on, there's one more thing." When he told her about the skull in Carlson's bedroom, Cam felt dread, cold and twisting in the pit of her stomach. It wrapped around her heart and squeezed.

"Seeley, we'll be there in twenty-five minutes. Sit tight."

"Right." He closed his phone, but fiddled with it instead of putting it away. _Damn, _he'd wanted to hear Brennan's voice. He'd hoped she would be able to ground him, help his heart beat steady and shake off his irrational fears. Make the hair on the back of his neck stand down. He was no rookie— hell, he'd seen a lot worse. He circled the body until he was standing directly below the light bulb, where he'd been standing when he came in to this room. He took a breath, trying to cool his nerves.

Booth ran a hand across his face, getting a sensation so faint it was like pricking a finger on a straight pin. Booth took two steps back from the body, not understanding why he felt this way. Was it just because Brennan wasn't with him? Because he was alone, he was letting his guard down, feeling the sick churning in his stomach. Was this a prank? A prank that had turned into murder? He squeezed his phone for some connection with the material world, and took another step away from the victim, not wanting to be so close to its otherworldly presence.

The presence he felt strongly behind him was all too physical— but it was too late. A chloroformed cloth clamped down over his mouth and nose tightly. Startled, Booth's eyes widened and he screamed angrily into the cloth, bashing his elbow backwards into his attacker's gut. The person grunted but instead of letting go, reached for Booth's wrist. The person's enormous hand grabbed the hand that was holding the cell phone, and crushed so hard that Booth's phone fell from his fingers. Booth squirmed and pulled at the hand over his mouth, but it was vise-like. He tried to squirm his way out of the grasp by pulling his attacker's arm towards the floor, but the man got wise. His attacker twisted Booth's arm behind his back, forcing Booth to remain upright, trapped. Booth yelled again, inhaling sickly sweet chemicals down his throat and into his nasal passages. His head was starting to swim. He jabbed at his captor with his free arm, and kicked backwards, but his attacker held him firmly. Booth thought it was a guy, Herculean, beefy, and too strong. _No, no!_ he thought. _No! I have to hold on— I can't—_ His vision blurred for a second, and he shook his head wildly to clear his eyes. _Brennan will be— here—soon—_ The pain in the arm held behind his back was beginning to dull, and his efforts to get free were being sapped. Booth caught glimpses of the house's white walls, its crumbling ceiling. His muscles felt weak. He was losing.

Before he blacked out, he thought he heard a voice, faint, like tin. It murmured, "You are in danger here." His vision slid. He saw Brennan's face, the soft curvature of her cheeks, her green eyes, the subtle smile on her lips. Her voice saying, "Hey, Booth, you're going to be all right." When his knees buckled, his captor released him and he dropped, barely a foot from the body. Booth's limp hand smacked against some of the pooled blood that had leaked from the body.

Booth's attacker bent down and hoisted Booth's unconscious form over his shoulder with ease. He didn't notice some blood was on the federal agent's hand. Booth's limbs dangled limply; dead weight, but his captor didn't seem to care.

_With the trap set, we shall have our prey. _Earlier, Billy had sneered Quinn's rendition of their latest "prank". But now that it was done, at least part one, he had to grin. This was going to be an even more fun way to play with the hearts of Jeffersonian team. Getting Booth outside to his car, the gray Pontiac Gran Prix, proved easy. Billy popped the trunk open and dumped Booth inside; he wound his way up the dirt drive and was a ways away in the opposite direction before the sirens cut into the otherwise quiet afternoon.

* * *

When Brennan and Cam arrived, the local police and coroner were already there, poking around. Booth's SUV was parked just in front of the house, with the other cars pulled up haphazardly beside it. They got out and were met on the porch by some uniforms and a couple detectives. Cam introduced herself and Tempe. One of the detectives took Brennan inside so she could examine the skull.

Brennan noticed that the door had been kicked in; had Carlson been resisting? Then she remembered that the body was likely Carlson's. She frowned, wondering what had been going through Booth's mind when he walked into such a grisly scene when they'd figured the worst that could happen was the suspect would run. Inside, she made a face at the scene in front of her, noticing there was a smear of blood next to the body that resembled a hand print, but continued to the bedroom with her gloves already on. No one had touched it; she was more than a little shocked to discover that it was only a partial. Was this the missing skull from the pit? How had it ended up here? She examined it until she heard Cam out in the front room, then left it and wandered out.

"What did Agent Booth tell you?" Cam asked one of the detectives after she'd looked over the body.

The detective told her, "Agent Booth isn't here, Dr. Sayoran."

"What? What do you mean, not here?" Tempe demanded.

The detective took a breath. He was a patient man used to telling people the hard facts. "He's not here. That car out front is his?"

"Yes, but what are you saying?"

The detective motioned to one of his officers, who brought over two plastic bags. "Here," the detective said, handing the bags to Cam. "When we discovered Agent Booth wasn't here, we searched the house. One of my officers found this"— he nodded to the bag with the cell phone— "about a foot from the victim."

"And this?" Tempe asked, taking the other bag. There was a damp cloth inside.

Without opening the bag, Cam examined the cell phone. She forced herself to stay calm. "Dr. Brennan, do you recognize this"Ó she asked, turning towards her with her hand outstretched. Tempe focused her attention on the bag in Cam's hands.

"That's Booth's. I don't understand. Where is Booth?" She glanced around the semi-dark house as if her partner would appear at any moment with a goofy smile on his face. She looked at the detective, and then pulled open the bag in her hands. She wafted the scent of the cloth towards her nostrils and choked. Cam bent forward and took a whiff.

"That wasn't likely used on the victim," the detective said, meaning the body on the floor. "The coroner figures it was the blow to head that killed him while he was very much awake." The victim's mouth was opened, as if in a scream.

"We should notify the FBI," Cam said. "There was an agent Booth said to go to in his absence." She had to clench a fist at her side to steady herself, and take in a breath, though the air stank of death. "They might want to have a look at this body." The older detective interrupted, but Cam added quickly, "Regardless of whose jurisdiction this is, I say this because if one of their agents is missing. This may be a matter for the FBI."

"We need to get back to the Jeffersonian as soon as possible," Brennan told Cam, trying not to panic. "I will need the skull in the bedroom brought over. And if we can take these." She held up the bags. "Because this evidence suggests that—that—" She took a breath. "I can't believe it." She looked at Cam, whose face was grim.

The seasoned Detective said,"I can't shake the possibility that it looks like a kidnap."

"Detective, you believe that Agent Booth was kidnapped?" Cam repeated, half incredulously.

"Yes, I do. From what you told me, Dr. Sayoran, Agent Booth didn't stumble across the killer while in the apartment. There are no signs that he would have chased a suspect on foot— I'm sure he didn't leave here voluntarily. Then there's the chloroform, and the dropped cell. I would bet cold hard cash that this was premeditated. As if the culprit knew Agent Booth would be here alone."

_As if he knew Agent Booth would be here alone._ The words hit her like a sledgehammer. She clasped her chest as if it were suddenly too hard to get air into her lungs. _The phone call._ She had forgotten about it while she, Zach, and Mr. Nigel-Murray were pondering over the Jane Doe in the pit with the missing head. Then when Cam came to get her after Booth called, she'd rushed away, still thinking about how this Jane Doe was also recovered without any distal phalanges. When Cam told her in the car that Booth had found a partial skull in Stan Carlson's bedroom, she wasn't sure what to make of it. She couldn't wait to ask Booth about it. But Booth wasn't here. And it wasn't likely he'd chased a suspect; there wasn't anywhere out here to hide. Her knees felt weak.

"Then you're saying that whomever was here knew exactly who Booth was?" Brennan asked, her voice pitching. She exchanged a glance with Cam. "What if— what if this is linked to the all pranks targeting the Jeffersonian, Cam?" When she didn't elaborate, Cam explained briefly to the detective about the malicious pranks, with the latest being a near hit and run.

"Attempted murder?" The detective let out a low whistle, and then frowned hard, exposing all the wrinkles on his face. "And now, a possible abduction."

"We can't know that for certain," Brennan tried, her voice thin. "Booth might just be misplaced— missing, but he could be fine." _Not in danger,_ she thought, but her mind unwillingly wandered back to when mafia crime boss Hugh Kennedy had kidnapped her partner. A long time, it seemed, passed when she had no idea where Booth was. She remembered unpleasantly how frantic her moods were, how scared she had been that she wasn't going to get Booth back. Alive.

_But why would they go after Booth? They already pulled mean spirited, malicious and dangerous "pranks" on each one us_, Brennan thought. _It was as if, with the hit and run, that they were telling us they meant business. I can't believe they'd resort to kidnapping Booth, a federal agent at that. _

"You take those bags," the detective said. "And go. We'll clean up here, notify the FBI, and get you what you need. This murder may be connected to those pranks. All of that, and this, seems much too carefully plotted out."

The two women went back to Cam's car, both stunned. Though Booth had been kidnapped by the Ice Pick killer, Cam hadn't even considered that Seeley may be included as a target for the pranks. She made a U-Turn and drove back down the dirt driveway. These pranks had gone too far, and now Booth's life was at stake.

"Maybe he wasn't taken anywhere," Brennan said, though it was clear she didn't believe in the words coming out of her own mouth.

"Dr. Brennan," Cam said, "if even it's true, you know Booth can hold his own, even in a situation he's not in control of."

She nodded. "But why go after him?" Then it struck her— if these pranks were really meant to hurt her (because really, her "prank" had been the most minor of all) then taking Booth would be the very worst thing she could think of. She pressed both hands to her face and felt tears burn her eyes. "Booth," she murmured.

Cam focused on the drive, but her heart raced. A cold rain began, fat drops splashing against the windshield. She turned on the wipers and stared ahead.

"This is all my fault," Brennan said, dropping her hands into her lap, tears still on her cheeks.

"Dr, Brennan," Cam began, "these pranks aren't your fault. It's some sick game—"

Tempe shook her head hard. "No, I mean, that I didn't go with him to question Carlson. Maybe I might have been able to help him fight off the attackers." She sighed morosely. "I was in the car, we were on the way, and then I got a call from an intern, telling me I needed to come back."

The bottom of Cam's stomach dropped to her feet like a boulder. She snapped her head from the road. "Booth brought you back and then went on alone?"

"Yes," Tempe said, her eyes opening widely. "Watch out!" There was a horrible squeal of tires and brakes. Cam's car slid across the lanes to honking and curses, nearly sideswiping a line of cars braked for a red light. She ended up in the far left lane, shaking, her arms tense and her knuckles white clutching the wheel. It was Brennan who found her voice first. "Are you all right?"

Cam nodded, and took swallowed hard. "Yes. I'm sorry. I don't—"

"You hydroplaned," Brennan explained, her voice low and shaky. She looked out her window, but the rain was coming down too thickly to really see out. There were angry honks behind them, and Cam eased off the brake and pulled the car ahead into traffic. Neither of them spoke again until Cam had pulled into the Jeffersonian parking garage. "This is my fault," Brennan repeated softly before they got out of the car. "Booth would be safe if—"

Cam shook her head. "Stop that. We'll figure out what's going on," Cam told her, patting her arm. She took some deep breaths, trying to focus on Booth's face to steady her.

"We have to," Brennan said grimly. "Booth is depending on us."


	9. Chapter 9: The Man With The Power

**Chapter Nine: You Remind Me Of A Man, A Man With The Power**

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Disclaimer: I do not own lyrics to Hungry Lucy's _Could It Be? _Or Cowboy Mouth's_ Voodoo Shoppe. _Also do not own Bela Lugosi or Dracula. Another Season 4 character makes an appearance, and there are some minor spoilers for Season 2's "The Killer in the Concrete".

______________________________________________________________________________

_#_

_"Down off of Rampart, there's a little hideaway_

_And if you've got a brave heart,_

_Come and visit any day_

_There's a princess named Celeste,_

_Eyes like fire, her hair's a mess_

_Incense burning, my luck is turning_

_I can't tell but I'm under her spell_

_#_

_"I gotta go, I don't know where_

_I'm tired and sick of living scared_

_Get the shaking and I can't stop_

_Live upstairs from a voodoo shoppe"_

_#_

On their way in from the parking garage, Cam's cell phone rang. She picked it up immediately. "Hello?" she said before quickly adding her name. Brennan stopped walking and turned towards her. Cam started to wave Brennan ahead of her but stopped, focusing all of her attention on her phone call. "I'm sorry, Agent Perotta, can you please repeat that?" She listened, disbelief evident on her features. "I can't believe we could have _missed_ something like that—"

"We don't know much yet," Perotta said over the phone, "including where exactly it's leaking in from, but don't feel too bad. Everyone here, including the officers and CSIs, has been affected. The body, as well as any surrounding possible evidence, is being sent over to the Jeffersonian."

"Is there any sign of Agent Booth?" Cam had the slightest hope in her.

Perotta sighed. "No. I think I'll have to agree with the officers. But I have no idea who would actually abduct him."

"I don't either. At least not yet."

"All right. We'll talk more about this later, after Dr. Brennan has examined the body." Cam hung up the phone.

"What is it?" Brennan asked, her eyes wide.

Cam smiled tightly, without humor. "The body suffered a bone trauma— the weapon used in the murder cleaved all the way through the skull. Booth may not have noticed because of all the blood and bodily fluid on the head."

"Booth?"

"Sorry, Agent Perotta says there's no sign."

Brennan blinked, trying to clear her head. "The body suffered bone trauma? How could I have missed that?" Had she been that worried about Booth that she ignored the job she should be doing?

"Come on, I'll tell you on the way in," Cam said, starting towards the elevator. "Agent Perotta told me that the CSIs are suspecting some kind of high EMF— that's electromagnetic field— level exposure—"

"What does that mean?" Brennan interrupted, squinting at her.

Cam sighed. "I don't actually know. But the point is, there was more in that air we were breathing than just, well, oxygen." She held up her hand when Brennan started to get particular about that subject. "She said that everyone exposed to it has been experiencing everything from paranoia to confusion." Cam did not like to think that Seeley had been there, breathing the bad air, for almost a half an hour, before he called her. "Agent Perotta thinks that, if Booth really was— taken, that the high EMF levels may have caused disorientation and paranoia in him, which may explain how it may have been easier to overpower him than if he'd been on a higher alert."

Brennan swiped her key card, her thoughts straying back to Booth. Her voice caught in her throat. "We have to tell everyone. I can't believe this is happening."

Cam had both evidence bags, which she now wondered if she should have taken them— essentially, the scene where the body was found contained the evidence of two crimes. A murder. A kidnapping. But she reflected that it was okay since the body would be sent over for their examination. Brennan was already down the hall, disappearing into Angela's office.

Angela was at her desk, working on a sketch. "Hey, hun," she said pleasantly, glancing up as Brennan sank into one of the stuffed chairs. Her friend looked too pale. "Where's the matter?" she asked, setting down her pencil.

"It's Booth," Brennan said, her green eyes filled to the brim with worry.

"What's Booth?" Angela asked gently when Brennan paused. She got anxious when she noticed Brennan working very hard not to tear up.

"He's missing. He called Cam from the crime scene—"

Angela opened her mouth wide to protest. She wasn't sure where she should start though. "Crime scene?" she squeaked out. She thought that Booth was just going to question the owner of the spider.

Brennan nodded, looking slightly bothered. "Booth called Cam," she repeated. "He said he'd found a corpse on the floor, and thought it might be Stan Carlson, since it was his residence."

_Oh. No._ Angela's stomach jumped around, the small bit of salad digesting making her feel ill. "Dead?" she murmured. Then, "Booth?"

Cam poked her head in the door. "Can you two please come to my office? I think we need some privacy to discuss—" She took in the looks on both women's faces and nodded, since it seemed that Angela had learned some of the details already.

"Is it true?" Angela asked, getting to her feet and staring intently at Cam. "Booth is missing?"

"My office," Cam said, motioning her to follow. Brennan was the last one in. Zach and Hodgins were already waiting within, neither of them sitting. Angela sank into one of the chairs, her body tensing.

"Dr. Brennan and I just got back," Cam began, looking around at the concerned faces staring back at her. She explained about Booth's finding of the body, and how Special Agent Perotta had already been contacted and that the remains would be here shortly. She mentioned about the EMF levels but told them she didn't have all the facts and suggested that Perotta would be able to elaborate when she got here.

"Perotta?" Hodgins asked uneasily. "Isn't she some kind of stand in for Booth?"

"Yes," Cam said tersely. "Booth called me from the house but when we got to the scene, he was not there." Cam pushed the two evidence bags across her desk. Hodgins picked up the one holding the cloth, and Angela, the cell phone.

"Is this Booth's phone?" she asked with horrified awe, staring back at Cam.

"Yes," Tempe said, her voice thin.

Hodgins stared at the seal on his bag with a frown. "What is this, Dr. Sayoran?"

Zach was eyeing the cloth, his eyes slowly widening. "It's chloroform soaked, isn't it?" he asked softly.

"How did you know that?" Brennan asked, resisting the urge to take Zach by the shoulders and shake him.

"Process of elimination," Zach deduced seriously. "It's obvious what you are trying to tell us."

"No," Hodgins said, glancing from Zach to Brennan. "No. Are you—" He stared at the bag. "You think Booth was abducted?"

"It hasn't been officially confirmed," Cam stated, swallowing a lump in her throat.

"But it's highly probable," Brennan cut in. Her voice shook and she bit her lips.

"But Booth isn't a Squint," Zach mumbled suddenly.

Angela craned her neck to see him. "What did you say?"

Zach repeated what he said, and then added, "Am I the only one who thinks this might be the work of the pranksters?"

Everyone looked thoughtful for a little while. "We were talking about this as a possibly in the car," Brennan said, glancing at Cam, who confirmed it.

Hodgins asked, "Kidnapping as a prank though? Even as a sick, twisted 'prank', who would be the target of this? I mean, if Booth was the one taken, then it couldn't be him."

They all gazed at each other for a few moments. "All of us," Angela offered. She pushed to her feet, too agitated to sit still any longer.

"What?" Brennan started. Part of her wondered if this so-called 'prank' was executed only to hurt her.

"If we're supposed to be hurt and scared by the pranks— everything we've already been put through, then this one—" She gulped, but managed to continue, "Then this one would be the scariest one to date." She squeezed Jack's arm, because she held felt his body go rigid beside her. "Think about it," she went on, when no one spoke. She wondered how she was managing to get through this so calmly. She ticked off the possibilities on her fingers. "Booth's missing. He's probably been kidnapped. Fact is, we don't know a thing. We are kind of at the mercy of the abductor to offer some clue to Booth's condition, or his whereabouts. We're out of control— they seem to enjoy that, whomever they are." Angela's stomach soured as she uttered the word "enjoy".

"Yeah," Jack mumbled, seething. "They want to scare us to death."

"Was a note found at the house, Dr. Sayoran?" Hodgins asked, his eyes scanning her coolly. He tried not to let his mind stray back to the prank done against him, but he was having the hardest time controlling an urge to throw his hands in front of his face to block out the lights of the oncoming car, which was only driving towards him in his memory. He felt Angela tighten her grasp on his arm, and he pressed his palm against hers for stability.

"No. Just the phone and the cloth. There aren't many signs of struggle other than those. The detectives theorized that someone jumped Booth from behind, put the cloth over his mouth and held him until he passed out."

"But Booth?" Zach started, wondering who the agent may have tangled with who could have been of such great size to overpower him. He remembered that Booth had been kidnapped a few months ago, but at that time he had been surprised and coldcocked.

"Perotta thinks the high EMFs may have been a contributing factor," Brennan told them quietly. Cam nodded, and urged her to continue. "Apparently, it can cause paranoia, confusion, distress, hallucinations." She sighed, trying to picture where Booth might be at this moment, what he may be going through. She pushed her hands together, squeezing her fingers to ground herself.

"Also, extreme disorientation," Cam added. "The detectives think that Booth was trying to use his phone to call for help, but that he either dropped it during the struggle or that his attacker knocked it from his hands."

"I just don't understand," Brennan said miserably, shaking her head. She looked up at the faces of her friends. "I mean, I'm sorry, I've been following the conversation, but I'm having a hard time figuring out why someone might—" She flicked her eyes towards Zach. "He's a federal agent. He doesn't work at the Jeffersonian."

"But he works with us, and this is where we work, Brennan," Hodgins told her, frowning. "And he's close to us— to you. He's your partner for federal cases." He let out a low whistle. "Goddammit. We should have seen it sooner."

"None of us did," Cam said. "How could we know that Booth might be targeted?"

"I should have known. I should have known something was wrong," Brennan muttered. She was pacing. "This is my fault."

"Sweetie, no," Angela began, taking a step towards her.

"I was supposed to go with Booth to the man's house," she began, and explained her mysterious call.

"That's right," Zach remembered. "You were really irritated because you couldn't figure out who had called you." Brennan nodded. "And even I couldn't find anyone in the pit who knew anything about your call." Angela frowned, thinking this very strange.

"Someone wanted you out of the way so Booth would be alone," Hodgins said with realization. His stomach twisted.

"Booth found a skull similar to that in Carlson's bedroom," Cam told them.

"That doesn't make any sense at all," Zach said, shaking his head. He remembered looking over the headless skeleton in the pit with Vincent and Dr. Brennan.

"Unless it was a diversion— wait a second, you think someone may have taken that out of Jeffersonian and planted it there?" Hodgins asked suddenly, his voice raising. Usually he would have been shot down for offering any kind of conspiracy theory, but now what he was saying was making sense.

"Oh, my god," Angela breathed. "Then that means— it's someone we know."

"What?" Four heads turned in her direction.

"Think about it. Who else has access to the bones? It's not like the UPS guy can just waltz down to the pit and filled up his bag with loose bones—" She frowned at her own grim imagination. She shook her head. "It's all too elaborate. Brennan gets a call to tell her a similar skull to the teenage runaway is here—"

"But it was really at Stan Carlson's house," Cam finished, moistening her lips. "That probably means that Carlson knew his killer."

They looked around at one another, trying to make out their own fears in each others' eyes.

"The best thing we can do right now is get back to work," Cam told them, though the tension in the air was nearly electric. "Dr. Hodgins, can I get you to check the cloth for DNA?"

"Yeah, sure." He stared at the bag. "It's okay I break the seal and all, Dr. Sayoran?" he questioned, eying Cam. She gestured and he handed over the bag, which she promptly tore open, and then handed back. "What seal?" she asked him, her voice neutral. He nodded at her with some new respect, and left her office for the lab.

"Zach, I need you to dust the phone for finger prints, other than Booth's," Brennan told her assistant. Her voice shook. "The Detective thinks that whomever attacked Booth wasn't wearing gloves and may have left a print on the phone."

"How did the detective come to that conclusion?" Zach asked.

"Because of the dropped cloth. Why leave that behind? It might be the work of an amateur—"

"Someone who's never kidnapped anyone before?" Angela supplied, her large lips pulling into a repulsed frown.

"Possibly," Cam uttered. "Or it may be the part of some larger plan."

They stared at her, but no one knew what to say.

"Wait, what should I do?" Angela asked, following behind Tempe and Zach. "I can't just do nothing."

"Go ahead, Zach," Dr. Brennan said, handing him the bag. She turned back to Angela, her eyes filling up. "Oh, hun," Angela breathed, pulling her friend into a hug.

"I should have gone with him, Ang," Dr. Brennan confessed, her voice breaking.

"Shh," Angela hushed. "You didn't know. Booth's gone on lots of those routine suspect check-outs and things have turned out fine. How could you have known?"

"I feel like I should have, with everything that we've been through."

Angela took a step back, looking Tempe in the eyes. "Come on, Brennan. That assessment is way too harsh. We've all been through it, and not one of us 'caught' on. We're all smart people, but it wasn't as if there was a formula. Every prank was different, and so was every note."

"The notes," Brennan repeated. "That's what you can do, Angela. Check them again, all together. Maybe there's something we missed?"

Angela heard the urgency in Brennan's voice, and knew that it matched her own determination to figure out something. So far, the pranksters had been elusive, but perhaps one of them had made a mistake, dropping the cloth. And then there was the matter of the body . . . .

Angela left but Brennan still lingered in the hall outside of Cam's office. Cam could see her, but waited for her to either speak or leave. It seemed Brennan was having difficultly collecting her thoughts objectively. Brennan opened her mouth several times to state that she felt useless, but she couldn't get the words out. Finally, Cam told her gently to go prep her lab space for arrival of the body. It was minor, but it gave her something to focus on other than seeing some unknown attacker chloroform and drag Booth off again and again in her head.

* * * * *

He woke to a voice singing softly. His head ached; pain spiked down the back of neck, his shoulder blades tensed.

_". . . . I won't leave. I will remain. . . . It will be your suffering. You had your opportunity."_

Booth groaned. He tried to open his eyes, but at mere slits, a semi-bright light slashed in, and he let them close. He needed to become aware of his surroundings so he could figure out what had happened, but his eyes remained closed. In the darkness, Booth tentatively moved his limbs, but nothing complied. He tried again, then again, a small panic thudding around inside his chest. _Why can't I move?_ he wondered dimly, straining his fingers outward. They brushed against something scratchy and rough. He rubbed his fingertips across it, slowly becoming aware that it was a fabric, maybe wool, something pilled, worn. The right side of his face also rubbed against this fabric; maybe it was a blanket? Booth tried to lift his head but slicing pain edged from the bridge of his nose to the back of his skull, and he let his head drop. He became aware he was lying on his right side, kind of scrunched, his knees drawn towards his chest. Tentatively, he eased his legs forward; they scraped along the blanket but he couldn't feel it on his skin. Booth pushed his face against the blanket, trying to determine what was beneath it. It was spongy, with not much give. Maybe, a sofa or a mattress?

_". . . . you're suffering, when you see me, again and again? I know your fears, you'll cry your tears, so helplessly. "  
_

The murmur of voice was close, a soft bittersweet hum.

For the first time since he woke, Booth tried to speak, and the first actual tendrils of fear wrapped around him. Booth wiggled his tongue around the cloth secured between his teeth, almost frantic to push it away, but it held firmly. He fought hard to control his breathing, and worked to remember his FBI training should he ever end up in a situation such as this.

_Was I really?_ Booth thought, easing his eyes open again. This time, they remained open, partially, while he scanned his surroundings. _This place is different,_ he thought simply. The space at his eye level was barer, more bleached of color, than— than the house he'd been in. _Carlson's house,_ Booth remembered slowly. _And Carlson's body on the floor._ He tried to move his hands again, but they stayed in their place. He made out some furniture: a table with two plastic cups on it, two dirty plastic patio chairs, and an orange and lime green plaid arm chair; this space must be some kind of common room. A hallway led from the back of the room to somewhere he couldn't see.

Booth's spine went rigid, and he bit down hard on the cloth in his mouth. His eyes opened further, and he recalled, with vivid detail, the odd, unwell feeling in the pit of his stomach directly prior to someone clamping a chloroform rag over his mouth and nose. The struggle against the attacker itself was a bit of blur, as well as losing consciousness, but the horrible truth was just hitting him. _I've been kidnapped,_ Booth thought with disbelief.

"Oh, you're awake," a bright, almost childlike voice said.

The sound was too loud and too close; Booth flinched, but forced himself to work on finding the person the voice belonged to. He didn't see anyone else in the room with him, and he couldn't turn his head too far. He rolled his eyes upward, straining to see if the speaker might be sitting directly behind the place where his head rested.

"Mmm," he moaned, not sure what he'd been trying to ask. Who? Why?

"That's right," the same disembodied voice answered, as if it and Booth had been carrying on some kind of conversation. The person sighed. "I wanted to be here when you—"

The person leaned over him suddenly; Booth's eyes widened and he jumped as much as he could in his bound position. He let out a cry that was effectively muffled by the gag. The person laughed, though Booth now knew why the voice had a slight dampened quality about it. The face the person wore was false— a rubber mask, pulled down completely to the base of the neck, tucked into the person's nondescript, shapeless t-shirt. The mask was that of a T-Rex, with leering yellowish reptilian eyes and pointy rubber teeth that seemed to say, "All the better to eat you with, my dear."

Booth cursed under his breath, taking in shallow breaths through his nose to steady his racing heart. The person in the mask was staring at him without speaking. He wanted to turn his head away, but he was stuck on his right side for now.

"We had our fun," the T-Rex said, leaning towards him. Booth's brown eyes narrowed. "But now it's time to get serious." A small hand shot forward, gloved fingers on his cheek before he could react. The hand stroked his face while he grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut, and then traveled up to his hair. "What does she see in you, hmm?" Booth's eyes opened again, and his heart began pounding hard. He had the worst feeling that T-Rex was talking about Bones. He tried to mumble to leave her alone, but the gag was too thick. The person only laughed, amused.

A door opened, and Booth swung his eyes towards the sound. Another masked person appeared, stomping down the hall in equally nondescript black clothing. This person was distinctly male, despite the shapeless clothes; Booth guessed he was six foot four, broad shoulders and his torso and arms packed with bulky muscle, with long, sturdy legs. Booth wondered if the guy was slimmer than the clothes made him seem. His mask was a rubber replica of Bela Lugosi's Dracula face. Dracula towered over Booth, though he stopped on the other side of the coffee table.

"You did good work," T-Rex said brightly to Dracula. Booth flicked his eyes towards it when he heard the person's— which, from the timber of the voice, he determined was female— smile in the words.

"It wasn't that hard," Dracula boomed deeply. Booth glowered up at him, his forehead creased with three lines.

"He didn't fight at all?" T-Rex asked wonderingly.

"He did," Dracula admitted, "but by that point he'd been breathing that air for a half an hour."

Booth stared up at him, his face blank with confusion. _What was this guy saying? There was something wrong with the air in Carlson's house? _

"Besides, the house was pretty dark— you know how Stan kept it. I think he'd let his guard down. He had no clue he was being watched."

_"You know how Stan kept it."_ Booth went over the phrase several times in his head, with apprehension. _"You know how Stan kept it."_ They— both of these masked people— knew Stan Carlson. Booth did his best to keep the stress from his features. _Could one of them be Carlson's killer?_

"So, why you here anyway?" Dracula asked T-Rex. He crossed his arms. "I figured you want to be there— the big reveal and all."

T-Rex sighed. "I did, but I wanted to be here too. Can't be in two places at once." Booth felt her hand in his hair again and tensed, but knew that trying to move would do no good. "I wanted to see his fear firsthand, you know? That way, when I'm around them, when they're not seeing me but I'm seeing them, I can let a little of it slip, you know?"

Booth was trying hard to follow her train of thought and contain his disgust.

Dracula listened but didn't seem to have anything to offer. Finally, it seemed to sink in for him. "More notes?" he asked questionably.

Booth couldn't be sure, but he thought she may have nodded. "I think so. As I was just telling our Special Agent here, it's time to get serious." Booth rolled his eyes towards and glared, though an ache started behind his right ear, winding down his neck. He felt his right side tingling with small pricks of pain; it must be going numb. Even though they were both watching him, Booth pushed his legs down the length of the couch.

Dracula leaned across the brown square of the coffee table. "Don't think you're going anywhere," his voice thudded close to Booth's face. Booth stared back with angry, defiant eyes, and mumbled something spiteful under his gag. The gloved hands strayed to his forehead. Booth tried to jerk away, but the pain behind his ear smacked him in the side of the head. A wave a nausea traveled the length of his skin and he could only lie still, hoping it would pass. For a few horrible seconds, he was almost certain vomit would pool in his mouth and he would choke on it, but nothing moved up his esophagus. He took in fast breaths through his nose, then slower breaths, and the sickness ebbed away.

_Bones,_ he thought with both an ache of need and of fear. He scanned the room slowly, looking for anything gleaming, something that may be sharp enough to slice the ropes holding his arms together behind his back. Booth wondered dimly where his gun belt had ended up, because the last time he shifted he realized its familiar weight was missing. Other than the pain in his skull, he didn't think he'd been physically injured— the only thing keeping him here was the fact that he was tied up. So far, he'd hadn't been threatened with any weapon. Booth felt confused as to what exactly was going on— could these two masked kidnappers also be— Breath stuck in Booth's throat, transforming from oxygen to a tight knot. Things had escalated so quickly. Could these be the pranksters who had been preying on his friends?

Booth thought back to what the girl in the T-Rex mask had said. _"We had our fun. But now it's time to get serious." _Anger flashed across Booth's eyes. Trying to run Hodgins down had been _fun_? His mind flashed back to all the other pranks, and lingered on those roses sent to Brennan. He cursed under the gag, his eyes narrow slits peering up at the Dracula.

"He's so angry," T-Rex commented.

"Don't worry about it. He'll be frightened soon enough. You just wait— you'll see."

"You— you think?" she hesitated, as if she were suddenly having second thoughts. Her fingers stroked his forehead, but Booth didn't try to move away even though her touch made him feel unnerved.

Dracula moved around the coffee table and stood next to her, just behind Booth's head, where she must be seated. Out of the corner of his eye, Booth saw him pat a shoulder— must be hers, but most of her body was in his blind spot. It must have been reassuring to her, but Booth noticed that it was more the way a guy would punch another guy in the arm. _So, they aren't romantically linked,_ Booth thought, trying to access the situation, even though he wasn't certain if this minor detail was important. The touch wasn't really familial either— so they likely weren't related. _Just friends, or partners, in crime,_ he thought grimly. Booth noticed they were careful not to address either other by name, and they had also taken great care to hide their appearances from him; could this mean they were planning to let him go at some point?

His thoughts strayed back to the actual abduction, though the act itself was more a smear on his subconscious and seemed to make less and less sense the more he tried to go through it piece by piece. _Why did they take me? What are their plans? Is this some kind of higher level . . . "prank"? _Booth swallowed the air in his throat and felt the hair stand up on his forearms. Even if it wasn't a "prank", it was likely to be hurting Brennan badly, not knowing where he was, if he was in some kind of danger. He remembered the clear relief pushing aside the fear on her face when she and Max Brennan had rescued him from his Mafia kidnappers at that old airplane hanger. His abductors had bound him to a chair with tape and tormented him before cutting into his leg with a huge knife. Bones had arrived a short time later, she and Max helping to upright the chair and untie him quickly. Even then, he'd held onto all his hope that Brennan was going to find him in time. _Bones,_ he prayed now, _please find me. If I can't get out of here myself, I'm going to need you. _

Another door whined open; sounded like a screen door. Booth craned his head upwards, peering over the end of the couch where his feet rested. In front of him, this way, a long blank wall with a doorway about five feet away. He could just make out a pale yellow linoleum floor and possibly some kind of counter before a huge hand was under his chin, forcing his head back down against the scratchy fabric. Booth gasped, his eyes darting upward to see Dracula's arm stretched out towards him. The pressure was crushing, so he refrained from struggling, though he balled his fists behind his back.

"It's okay," T-Rex squeaked above his head, and the hand slipped away.

"That you?" Dracula called out, making Booth's ears ring a little. Movement in a far room, which Booth guessed was a kitchen, ceased. Dracula got up and stomped his way through the doorway. Booth raised his eyes to watch him go. He heard a low exchange of voices, but he couldn't make out the actual words.

T-Rex made a little excited noise which sent Booth's mouth into a scowl. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to slap the person, regardless of who may be under the mask. After that, he wanted the reassuring weight of his gun in his hand and then— surrender. Masks off. Brennan running towards him, worrying sliding from her face while he managed a small smile. Him telling her, "It's okay, I'm okay, Bones. I'm okay." The little fantasy made him feel good for a few seconds, until he shifted and felt the ropes and cloth cutting into his skin.

Booth was wrenched out of the silence by a laugh— sharp, like the gunshot pop of firecrackers. Definitely male. The voice pealed again; the voice of a rat, Booth thought, clenching his teeth, and then footsteps came down the hall. A slim figure appeared, Dracula tromping up beside him, and towering over him by quite a bit. This new person was likely only 5'9", and Booth had hard time determining his body type because the clothing seemed to hang on his frame. His rubber mask was of a fur-less Wolfman, and he examined Booth just that way, like a wolf brooding over its prey. The Wolfman laughed again; the sound was shriller now that he was actually in the room with Booth.

"So, this is the man with all the power?" Wolfman barked, still chuckling. The angry look on Booth's face seemed to amuse him, though Booth couldn't actually tell because the rubber face held no expressions of its own besides its eternally hungry, menacing look.

"It was," T-Rex said behind Booth. "Now we have it all."

* * * * *

The latest note was waiting on Dr. Brennan's desk. _Rescue him?_ it read.

A figure waited close by for her to make the discovery; just a stand in, actually, but still a person who was entertained by these pranks. He hid the grin with his sleeve when she screamed, and was able to disappear without being seen when the others rushed in.


	10. Chapter 10: Communication, A Gift

**Chapter Ten: Communication, A Gift We Share, But Most Of All, Divides The World In Places Without Walls **

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Disclaimer: All usual disclaimers apply. I do not own lyrics to Hunry Lucy's _Alfred_.

Author's Note: Thanks so much to my reviewers. I know it's been a bit of a delay for this next chapter; been sort of having writer's block on this story. Hope you are still out there and hope you enjoy this chapter. I look forward to your reviews. :)

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_#_

_"I have gone away and you still wander_

_Through the empty shell that we once called a home_

_You weren't here but I traveled with you_

_I wasn't there but I was always in your heart_

_Now I find I'm still alone_

_#_

_"My love, you can go_

_Into the light, sweet . . ."_

_#_

"What? What is it?" Hodgins cried out, the first one to reach Dr. Brennan's office. The others pushed in behind him.

Brennan looked up slowly, horror written all over her face. "It's— a note."

Hodgins tensed. Angela eased around him gently. "Bren— did you say it's a note?"

"It's—" She could only point at it on her desk. The word _ransom_ bounced around in her mouth; it was irrational to say it, because this letter wasn't demanding something specific in return.

Cam snatched the piece of paper from Brennan's desk by its corner. "Rescue him?" she read aloud. The square of paper where the "h" was type faced had a small triangle corner folded down, as if the glue wasn't sticky enough to keep it in place. _This was all? This was all they had to go on? Seeley . . . _

"Rescue him?" Angela repeated, peering over Cam's shoulder. She inhaled sharply. "Rescue Booth?"

"They _want_ us to find him?" Zach cut in, knitting his brow.

"It's a challenge," Hodgins mumbled. "It's their game." Everyone looked towards him.

"What do you mean?" Brennan asked, trying to follow. Her heart had stopped— not literally, of course, she knew, but that was the piercing sensation she received— when her eyes had swept over the letter. _Rescue him, with a question mark._ A taunt. A sneer. Could Hodgins be correct?

"They've changed the rules," Hodgins said, explaining when his friends looked confused that this so-called prank stood apart from the rest— even his near hit and run. "All the pranks up to this point specifically targeted one of us— but this 'prank' is on us all. We had no idea— Booth had no idea— that he'd—"

Cam started following and nodded. "The other pranks were passive. They _happened_— they were all set up to— the planning—"

"So, are you saying that because this 'prank' is for all of us, they— they want us to participate?" Zach wondered aloud.

Hodgins nodded. "Whomever they are, they like to play. They want us to play with them— because it might scare us even more than the individual stunts because we have no clue where they've taken Booth." He shuddered. "Though, I'm not sure if that means they aren't going to cycle us through another set of pranks."

* * * * *

The three maniacs in masks had a good laugh at his expense, but now they were gone. Booth suspected that they hadn't all left the house— or whatever this place was— but one by one, they'd left the common area. He couldn't hear movement; clenching his jaw, Booth kicked out his feet, swinging out with enough momentum to almost get himself upright. His legs hit the floor next to the coffee table, but his torso hadn't quite followed because an unexpected dizziness hit. _Crap_. _It was just chloroform, wasn't it?_ Booth thought, his head was swimming, his stomach twisted with knots. The effects should wear off in a few hours. Not that he was about to wait around for that. Gritting his teeth, Booth eased his right side up until he was in a sitting position. He had to rest his head against the back of the couch for a few seconds.

Booth peered around the room again, trying to see anything he might be able to loosen the ropes with. The room looked the same as it had when he was on his side; he didn't see anything gleaming or rusty or sharp; no good. Booth eased his head to the left, in the direction he'd assumed a kitchen lay. That may be the best bet— if he could get his hands on a knife, preferably a sharpened one, but at this point if he could find a butter knife, he wouldn't turn that away either, then it could be the first step to getting out of here.

Booth, holding his breath for a few seconds, listened for any movement in the house. Squeezing the muscles in his quads and calves, Booth surged to his bound feet, glad for fleeting moment his captors hadn't crossed his legs before tying them. He teetered over the square table nearly flush with the couch, but managed to hold his balance. He listened again, then pivoted to his right, taking a small jump towards the doorway where he'd glimpsed the pale yellow linoleum. The landing was loud, at least to his own ears. His heart thudded in his ears, but he refused to listen too long. _Now or never,_ he thought, taking another hop. Two more jumps, three, four; the doorway close. For a couple of seconds, he leaned on the door-less frame; he was feeling sick again, dizzy. _Not a good time._ Booth took the time to scan the kitchen; pale citrus colors— lemon and lime, off white counter tops, with a few battered looking appliances— a hot plate, a toaster, a microwave. Off next to the left wall, a kiwi faux leather dinette set, the back padding torn up and down.

Next to a grimy gray refrigerator, Booth glimpsed what he thought may be the twisted cord to a telephone attached to the wall. For a moment he was torn; should he try the phone or look for a knife? Or try to get the gag to come off? He'd already tried to force it out, he tried to chew it, but the cloth held. He figured he either have to catch it on the edge of something or cut it off; like the rope around his wrists, it just too tight.

Maybe the phone was the best idea, he decided. Should he be able to dial 911, even if he couldn't speak to anyone or was interrupted, by law emergency personnel would be required to follow up. Instead of trying to jump on the shiny, possibly slippery floor, Booth pivoted from side to side, easing himself towards the refrigerator. The rubber soles of his shoes squeaked in places, but the noise wasn't loud enough to draw attention. His heart raced; strange thoughts started to occur to him. His captors— despite their masks— they had the stance of the young— perhaps early or mid twenties. They all seemed overtly confident, though the girl, so far, seemed the biggest mystery. The way she spoke suggested she was both in control and in need of reassurance— if only for a moment. It could mean she had a weakness; he wondered, if he could speak to her, could he talk her down from whatever imaginary height she had convinced herself she belonged? Might be futile— the hesitation may be just a show. Booth knew from his long law enforcement career that there were just some criminals who had no sense of reason about them; no common sense either— might as well be talking to an empty chair for as much wasted breath.

Booth leaned on the fridge, pressing his right shoulder against it to steady himself; he wasn't really breathless, but his muscles were a bit cramped. He ease forward with small hops, trying figure out the best way to get the phone from its cradle. The phone was level with his elbows, but as he quickly discovered, his bound wrists couldn't reach anything but cord. He huffed, squeezing his stiff fingers around it, tugging. He heard it rock, but not enough to be in actual motion away from its base. He wrapped the cord around his hand, feeling the rubber cut into his skin. He pulled; no, it was still snug in the cradle. He tugged again, harder, but he only succeeded in popping the jack from the base of the phone. Hot sweat surged out of his armpits, across his chest. _Crap, crap, crap_. Booth turned his back to the phone again, blindly searching for the hole; as before, he couldn't pull his arms up that far.

He couldn't tell where the sounds were coming from, but he heard a skittering of motion, perhaps on stairs, or somewhere down one of the halls he couldn't see all the way down to. Booth froze, sucking in his stomach and pectorals, but managed to turn so he was facing the phone. He listened, holding his breath, and turned his head and eyes slightly to the right, towards the doorway he'd come in from. It didn't seem like it, but the common room with the couch was on an angle, or this kitchen room was, because from here, as from the couch, it seemed to be _trompe l'oeil_ or blind spots. _Or maybe, _Booth reasoned, _it's just a trick of fear that's making you see that. _He thought he shouldn't be scared of a bunch of kids— but if these so-called kids were really the pranksters tormenting Brennan and everyone, didn't he have some right to fear? On top of that, that one in the Dracula mask had jumped him with chloroform, likely stuffed him in the trunk of a car and then brought him here— as a hostage. _Kids or not,_ Booth thought, _they are some kind of dangerous._

Booth stretched his neck around the phone, still stuck in its cradle, then clamped it between his chin and chest, pulling it out. _Come on, come on, _he urged, hoping the sweat on his skin wouldn't make the plastic too slick. Booth groped for the cord, lowering himself to his knees, and bent forward nearly to the floor to set the phone down. He huffed again; what made him think making a phone call would be easier than finding a blade to slice through the ropes? Booth remained on his knees, worried that if he sat he might be stuck down there, and heard a couple pops in his stiff joints as he pulled the phone cord from behind back towards the jack-less phone. His fingers were sweaty; the phone nearly slid away from him twice, but Booth was relieved when he heard the jack pop back in place. He was even more relieved to hear a dial tone— it pulsed in time with his heart. He sighed, then slid the phone back in front of him, bending to punch the oversized button numbers with his nose. _Nine. One. One._

The phone rang twice and then a dispatcher picked up. "Nine one one, what is your emergency?"

Bending over the mouthpiece, Booth tried to speak under the gag, but even to his own ears the sound was only mumbles.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Help!" Booth yelled, hoping the operator could pick up, through the garbled cry, that the person on the other end of the line was in distress. "Help!"

The screen door slammed. Booth looked up, startled, his fingers and lips starting to tremble. He hadn't realized that the kitchen must be the first room one would walk into after entering this house— after whatever small entryway or foyer the door opened up to. The footsteps were close.

"Hello?_ Hello_?" The operator's voice was loud and shrill. Booth ducked his head, as if, tucked into a ball, he would escape being seen.

The footsteps were in the room with him. "What the goddamn hell?" a male's voice yelled out, obviously startled by Booth's presence. For a few seconds, Booth wondered if this person wasn't involved— was perhaps the owner of the house and could help him— but that delusion lost its color when the operator called out again.

"Hello?? Can you please answer me if you're there?"

The male above Booth muttered a low, nasty curse and then snatched the phone from the floor. He had spun, with his back to Booth before Booth could even catch a glimpse of his face. When Booth glanced up, he saw that the guy had pulled a black hoodie over his head, completely obscuring his appearance, at least from the back. His build was wiry, at nearly six feet tall, and pale white skin, from the hand Booth could see sticking out of the left sleeve of the sweatshirt.

"Hi, yeah, I'm sorry about that," the guy was saying gruffly into the phone. He sounded like he could be smoker, or maybe he'd recently quit; Booth couldn't detect even the faintest smell of cigarette smoke hovering around him or his clothing. "No, no, we don't need anyone coming out here. I'm sorry— it's just my grandma's cat— she likes to play with cord sometimes." The guy was silent for a few seconds. "No, I know, I know. I'm really sorry, I just got back from work. . . . Well, we have 911 on speed dial— my grandma lived here alone for a time, and we worried she'd break her hip. . . . She's in the hospital right now, I'm just watching . . . What? She's got arthritis, so the speed dial is easier. No, no, that's okay, really. I'm very sorry, again."

Instead of staying put, while the guy had his back to him, Booth started inching his way across the linoleum floor. He was to the doorway when the guy hung up the phone with a slam. "Where the shit are you?" the guy yelled behind Booth, approaching him with quick steps, then encircling the back of his neck with a surprisingly strong grip. "Hey! Hey! Who's here? Get out here!" the guy was yelling, loud enough to make Booth wince. He twisted in the grasp, trying to pull forward. "Jesus, the shit I come home to," the guy growled as Booth wrenched himself free. He grunted with pain as the guy kicked him with a steal toed boot square in the back, in the space just above his bound hands. Sweat edged out above his eyebrows, under his eyes and nose. He clenched his jaw as his back spasmed, and bent forward, low to the floor as he had when trying to set the phone down.

The footsteps of the others returned all at once.

"What the hell is this?" Booth thought that voice belonged to Wolfman because of its shrill quality.

"That's what I want to shitting know," the gruff male voice shot back. "This is what I come back to, your boy here in the kitchen, calling 911."

"What?" Okay, that deep growl was Dracula.

"Don't worry, I deflected it. They're not going to send anyone out here to check."

"What if they do?" Dracula asked. He angrily toed Booth's left thigh. Booth grunted, cursing. He stole a glance upward; there were three sets of legs; the girl wasn't here. "Keep that head down," Dracula snarled, knocking the crown of Booth's head with his tightly closed fist. Booth grunted with pain; he pressed his forehead against the frayed, scratchy carpet, surprised he'd made it out of the kitchen. The carpet reeked of tightly packed dirt, urine, vomit, beer, and other various likely spilled substances that were never cleaned up.

"Where the hell were you? One of you should always guard him. Goddammit, what do you think this is?"

"I thought D— I mean," Wolfman fumbled, obviously embarrassed at his near slip. "I thought she'd be staying."

"Freaking idiot," the guy from the kitchen yelled back. "You should know— at least one of us should be there—"

Their voices rang around him until they seemed to realize he was still there. "What the hell are we going to do with him now?" Wolfman asked, recovered from his embarrassment. "They might be on their way— should we lock him up?"

Booth tried to speak under the cloth, but he didn't lift his head even though the carpet reeked. How had he ended up in this situation? He knew there were those times that a routine questioning had the potential to go wrong— but a kidnapping? _His_ kidnapping? Part of him felt foolish for wishing Brennan hadn't received that call; what could _she_ have done if _he_ hadn't been able to fight off his attacker? That was unfair, he knew. Brennan was strong— she'd fought off other attackers before; and they had protected each other in other situations. But Booth felt slightly ashamed of his helplessness; _though,_ he reflected, _one of them— Dracula, right?— had mentioned there'd been something wrong with the air. What?_ He tried to sort it through as they argued above him, going back and forth about if they should lock him up out of sight somewhere or not for the time being.

Booth recalled the uneasiness he'd felt when he'd arrived at Carlson's house; then, more, upon entering. He'd had the creeper sensation of not only being watched, but also as if there had been something palpable but invisible rubbing up against his skin. And, he was certain he'd heard an external voice, small and fragile, warning him of danger. _Could the house have been . . . haunted?_ Booth shook his head slowly to himself, but he had to admit he wasn't certain— right now, there wasn't any explanation.

Two meaty hands found their way under his armpits, jerking him upright so that he was eye level with the Dracula mask for a moment. The shock, he was sure, was evident on his face, before Dracula got Booth over his shoulder. Booth's eyes were wide; the guy lifted him as if his body's mass was featherweight.

Dracula carried him down what Booth assumed was a hallway; it was hard to tell where he was being taken. At possibly the end of the hallway, a door knob turned and Booth felt the back of his legs slam against a door as it opened. Dracula squatted to fit them through the door and then dumped Booth onto a mattress resting only a box spring. Booth bounced once, squirming on his left side as he quickly took in the faded periwinkle, navy and royal blues of the room. Dracula turned and was out the door and back down the hall.

"Where'd you put those cuffs?" Dracula was asking one of guys.

_Oh, no,_ Booth thought. He had no clue where his keys had ended up; wasn't it bad enough to bound this tightly? He squirmed again, trying to move his hands. There was, he noticed, the slightest give, so he made himself focus on that and hoped his ropes wouldn't be checked.

Dracula thundered back down the hall, Booth's shiny silver handcuffs dangling from his fingers— which Booth now noticed were without of their gloves. The hands looked rough and calloused, with patches of pink and brown— dirt or mud most likely. Dracula entered the room and bent over Booth, roughly squeezing his right arm. "You're gonna to be a bad boy, we're going to treat ya like a bad boy," Dracula muttered, snapping the one of the cuffs around Booth's right wrist, then attaching the other cuff to something solid behind him on the bed. Booth tugged at the short space, alarmed, hearing a dull clang but finding no give on the cuffs. _Great, now I'm stuck to the wall,_ he thought grimly. Dracula closed the door and sat on the floor beside him, turning the mask in Booth's direction. "You think that was clever, don't ya?" Dracula asked, annoyed. Booth could picture the guy with narrowed eyes, scrunched eyebrows. "Trying to call for help? We'll see if your partner really has what it takes to rescue you— or if you're just going to waste away down there." Dracula laughed gravelly under the mask, staring at Booth's defiant eyes.

* * * * *

Dracula waited in room with him for about a half an hour; it seemed help wasn't on its way. Or if anyone had stopped by, the sound hadn't made its way back to this room. "You stay in here and think about what you've done," Dracula told Booth with the shake of a fist, looming over him before he went out the door. Booth scowled at him. Alone in the room, Booth tested his wrists again. The handcuffs hadn't affected that small give on the ropes; it was as good a place to start as any.

* * * * *

Agent Perotta arrived an hour after everyone had returned to working on their assigned tasks— the ones that they hoped would help lead them to Booth. Or at the very least, the tiniest clue that might lead to the next clue that may lead them— in the direction they needed to go in. She went directly to Cam's office.

"Agent Perotta," Cam said, standing. She walked around the front of the desk. "Come in."

"Thank you," Perotta said. "How are you and Dr. Brennan holding up?"

"Oh," Cam said, "we're all—" Cam paused, closing her eyes. "Sorry, you meant about high EMF levels in the air?"

Perotta nodded. "Yes, and in general."

"I guess," Cam pondered, trying to separate how she really felt amid all these swirling feelings of doubt, worry, and fear. "I— guess physically, I'm fine," she finally said.

Perotta nodded again. "Well, I wish I could bring you news— but after several sweeps, we still came up with nothing. Agent Booth is gone without a trace."

"Hopefully not," Cam said, explaining what everyone was working on regarding Booth.

Perotta blew out a hard breath. "We've filed a missing persons report, but as of yet there still isn't a determined cause as of why."

"You need more proof it's an abduction," Cam stated. "I guess I can see how it's undetermined."

"Yes. Even then, with so little to go on," she broke off. "They've already started retracing his steps, but there's no way to track him via GPS because his cell was dropped at the house. I'm very unclear on what a motive could be. Did the body arrive?" Perotta added.

"Yes," Cam told her, gesturing with her arm in the direction of the lab. "Dr. Brennan is examining it; I'm not certain if Dr. Addy is done with the phone yet." Agent Perotta turned around, ready to leave. "Oh, wait," Cam said, opening her eyes wide and then blinking them. "A note was left on Dr. Brennan's desk recently."

Perotta peered at her. "What kind of note? A ransom note?"

Cam bit her lip. "Not exactly."

"Huh," Perotta muttered, chewing her lip. "I think you need to fill me in."

Cam nodded. "Yes, I do."

* * * * *

"Sorry, Dr. Brennan— the only finger prints on this phone belong to Booth," Zach told Brennan as she examined the trauma to the head of the body— suspected by not yet known to be Stan Carlson. Angela, who had studied the notes over and over without any luck or direction, was now running dental records and finger prints for a positive ID.

"So, this was the man who owned that spider?" Zach asked, looking over the corpse, which was lying on the table face down, with its head turned a bit to one side.

"That's what we're trying to find out now," Brennan said, barely glancing up. "Can you please see where Hodgins is in his examination of the cloth?"

Zach nodded. "Where do you want me to put Booth's phone?"

"Right there is fine, Zach," Brennan said, indicating a clean part of the lab table. Zach set the phone, still in its plastic bag, though the seal had been broken, at the farthest point from the body. After he was gone, Brennan paused from her work to peer longingly at the phone— which she rationalized a few seconds later was stupid to do. The phone wasn't human— it was only a piece of plastic and rubber, a battery and a memory chip. It wasn't Booth. Yet it was the only thing she had on hand of his— a physical object— that reminded her of him— and that though it was here, he wasn't.

* * * * *

The door squeaked open, startling him awake. Booth couldn't remember dozing off, but he knew he'd been getting frustrated because, other than that small give— a tease— the ropes only burned his wrists rather than loosening all. Booth wondered absently, blinking, what time it could be. It was hard to tell, because there were dark blue curtains on all the windows; he thought, though, that it seemed less light was in the room. The hallway was dark, Booth, noted, before the woman in the T-Rex mask filled up the doorway with her slim figure hidden in black shapeless sweats. She crossed her arms, glaring at him through the beady yellow eyes of the mask.

"Agent Booth, I hear you tried to run away from us. You can't do that."

Booth stared up at her for a moment before dropping his eyes to her shins, which were level with the mattress. "No, you can't do that," she repeated. Booth tugged on the handcuff restraining him to the wall or whatever solid piece of furniture back there that refused to move.

She stepped over to him, kneeling next to the mattress. "I have a small favor to ask of you."

Booth glared at her.

"Now, I chose to be here with you— but I was told that her reaction to my letter was priceless." T-Rex clapped her gloved hands together. Booth tried not to imagine what her creepy smile might look like under the mask.

"You're sick," he muttered, though if she could understand him, she didn't acknowledge it.

"Apparently, we've got them all in an uproar— worried over you— but not yet terrified. I will take worried— it's only the first step, you know." She sighed. "It really is too bad about Stan. I liked him. He was always nice to me, except I know he was always checking me out in my skimpy Halloween costumes." She hitched a laugh. "Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself! I don't want to ruin the surprise!" Booth wondered how she could act so daft, so cheerleader cheerful, while she discussed torment and murder with an abducted federal agent.

"They've brought in some blond Fed to take your place, I guess," T-Rex continued. She sniffed. "She seems very sure of herself, but, lucky for me, she and Dr. Brennan don't seem too friendly with each other."

_Blond Fed? Perotta has stepped in?_ Booth thought, knitting his brow. _They must have called her._

"And then they found that skull— I knew they would." She sounded amused. "They've already caught on that's it's one of— oops, there, I go again, almost saying too much."

_Skull. Skull._ Booth let his mind wander. _The partial skull . . . in the bedroom . . . with the plastic skeleton. It was a trick . . . a prank,_ Booth realized slowly. He yanked on the cuffs, frustrated. He lifted his eyes; who _was_ this person under the mask? What did she really want?

T-Rex reached her gloved fingers into her pocket and fished out a small white device from her pocket. "This is my favorite new toy, Agent Booth," she said. She pushed a button and Booth's heart skipped a few beats, hearing the voice which had been recorded. _Brennan's scream, followed shortly by, "Booth, Booth, no. No. No. 'Rescue him?' 'Rescue him?' What is that supposed to mean?" _

Booth couldn't see it, but he guessed the woman wore an ear to ear smile from the tiny laughs she gave as she watched his face. She set the recorder down on the floor and reached for the gag, loosening the knot. She let Booth shake it off himself. His first words to her were a long string of curses which she only shook her head to. "You are so angry— now you know how it feels when you are taken away from her."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Booth snapped, his voice an angry snarl. "What do you want with me? You know who I am, what I doÑ you're going rot in a jail cell, lady."

T-Rex shook her head. "We don't have to think about that right now. Besides, it's unpleasant. And, there's still a chance I may get away with it." She laughed again, seeing the incredulous look on his face.

"There isn't a chance in hell," Booth shot back.

"You can't know that for sure— it's an assumption. If you knew anything about probability or rationality— but you lean more towards the guessing side of things. You are not like Dr. Brennan at all." She sniffed again, with distaste. "I have never known what she sees in you. And believe me, I've tried."

Booth frowned. "Yeah, well, I'm sticking with my first answer."

T-Rex shrugged. "It's up to you. But I need that favor now."

Booth shook his head, as little as he could turn it. "I'm not doing any favors for you unless you let me go."

T-Rex sat back on her heels with an exaggerated sigh. "Now, I'm confused."

_"__You_ are?" Booth cut in, raising his eyebrows.

"Here we have you all tied up, and you can't go anywhere, but you still tried—"

Booth rolled his eyes. "What's your point?"

"My point, Agent Booth," T-Rex snapped, "is that you still think you're in control. Well, you are absolutely not. I could just let you die here— no water, no food, nothing— and then I could still see Dr. Brennan at the trial for responsibility of your death." T-Rex paused. "You know she'd blame herself."

Booth cursed once, but held in the rest. Letting this woman get under his skin by mention of Bones wasn't going to help him keep a cool head— so, should he get out of these cuffs, he could try to get away from here again.

"But I am too magnanimous, you know," T-Rex continued, her voice taking on a pitch suggestive of some self imposed VIP. "I'm giving her a chance to do what she does— solve a crime. But instead of categorizing skeletal remains, she may get you back."

"May?" Booth repeated, then kicked himself.

T-Rex tipped her head from side to side. "We will have to see how well the game is played. Maybe, in the end, she won't earn it."

"I'm not some carnival prize," Booth muttered, staring at the mask.

"Yes, you are. In this game of pain," T-Rex retorted. "Well, of course, not physiologically. You are homo sapiens, plasma, blood, tissue, skin, cells, bones— but for our purposes you might as well be a big blue stuffed tiger dangling off the top of the chain."

Booth stared at her, unable to form an appropriate comeback. He noticed she spoke a little like Brennan; though, unlike Brennan who didn't know she was too literal until much after the fact, this woman seemed to go back and add on something which sounded scientific to a sentence obviously meant as figurative. _So, could this mean . . . could this woman be in a scientific field, one close to forensic anthropology?_

"What do you do?" Booth heard himself asking T-Rex. _In this game of pain._

"What do I do?" T-Rex repeated, confused for a moment.

"Are you a scientist?" Booth asked.

T-Rex leaned forward. "Why?" she asked in a smoky voice that disarmed him. "Do I seem scientific?" When he didn't answer, she went on. "Is that your type, Agent Booth? No strippers or gang girls for you?"

Booth rolled his eyes slowly. "You are _not_ my type. I'm not charmed by kidnappers or terrorists."

T-Rex pressed a gloved hand to her heart. "That almost hurts me. Maybe if I wasn't already taken, I might feel bad."

"I find that hard to believe," Booth said under his breath.

T-Rex huffed. "I heard that." She retrieved the device from the floor. "Say, 'help me'," she said sweetly, shoving the tiny recorder towards Booth's mouth.

Booth stared at her, then spat in the direction of the recorder.

She ignored any stray spittle. "Say it," T-Rex insisted. "Two little words, is all. You know how much she'll want to hear your voice."

"Forget it," Booth hissed. He pressed his lips together, refusing.

"Come on," T-Rex whined. "I know you'd rather do this my way." Booth stared at her, frowning. "Come on," she said again. "This is the easy way. If I have to get one of the guys, your pretty face will end up all hurt."

Booth's frown deepened to a scowl.

"Though," T-Rex considered, "I bet that would make a nice picture. For her, I mean." She sighed. "I wish I didn't have to hurt her this way."

"Then don't," Booth growled, forgetting he wasn't speaking to her. "Why are even going to so much trouble?"

T-Rex shook her head slowly and deliberately. "No, you wouldn't understand. She likes you— or loves you— you know what her good side looks like." She sighed wistfully. "But I— I've tried. I've tried really, really hard and she just won't—" She paused, looking Booth over slowly. She started to pet his hair, ignoring his initial flinch.

"Don't you have any idea what you're doing?" Booth asked. "You're an accessory to kidnapping— of a federal agent. The best thing you can do is let me go and turn yourself in."

T-Rex gave a high pitched giggle. "Oh, Agent Booth, you are so funny. I will let you go— but not until I get what I want."

"What's that?" Booth asked, tensing away from her hand. She followed his head and continued to stroke his hair.

"I can't tell you that. It would ruin the surprise. And now that I know you almost called for help— I can't risk it. No, no." She looked him over; Booth was glad he couldn't see her real eyes. He had a feeling they were either too dull or too bright— but either way, soulless. "Now, are you going to say what I want you to?"

"No."

"But, Agent Booth, don't you want your princess to rescue her prince?" Booth could imagine her batting her eyes at him; he rolled his eyes with disgust.

Booth stared back at her, biting his tongue hard to keep himself from uttering how crazy she sounded, how crazy she likely was. "What I want is Brennan to stay as far away from you as humanly possible— assuming you are human." He sneered at her.

T-Rex shook her head, drawing her hand back to her side. "One last chance. You play my game or you get gagged— and I'm sending one of them back here. Then you will say it— and it will sound even worse to her."

"You don't scare me," Booth spat back with a frown.

"I will," T-Rex told him. She pulled the cloth between his teeth, tightening the knot, then stood.

"You won't scare me!" Booth yelled through the cloth at her back disappearing down the hallway. "You won't!" He stopped struggling when an image flashed across his mind— Bones. She had just turned around, her chestnut shoulder length hair bouncing with the turn. She wore a subtle smile, her eyes all lit up the second she laid them on his. _Bones. If anything happened to her. . . . It made him sick to his stomach just to think about._ She hadn't controlled her anguish at all in the recording. He didn't know what was worse— keeping his voice from her, while she worried if he was alive, or giving it to her and letting it tear her up inside like her cries had done to him.

* * * * *

He didn't have a choice. Well, Brennan may have argued that he did have other options, that there was always a choice— but sometimes, there just wasn't. He hadn't reacted much to the punches— _in this game of pain_— but the threats cut him on a much deeper level. He didn't want to play their game. They had picked their way through his friends, describing in detail what possibly morbid and fatal prank could await Cam or Zach, Angela or Hodgins— this time without backing off. The scare would really be the very last. Booth held out, until the two people were mentioned that he knew he wouldn't be able to say no to. Brennan, of course, and Parker, his son. Booth felt the chills start in his legs at the mention of Parker— at only six, his sweet innocent son needn't ever know of his father's danger.

So he gave Brennan his voice, a very soft, "Help me" first, then another, gurgled up with a rush of blood from his mouth.


	11. Chapter 11: Ghostly Fingers

**Chapter Eleven: Ghostly Fingers Moving My Limbs **

**________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

Disclaimer: I do not lyrics to Allstars' _Bump in the Night_ or lyrics to Aqua's _Halloween_. I also credit Wikipedia for information about hypothermia.

Spoilers for Season 2's _The Killer in the Concrete._

Author's Note: I have had the most evil writer's block on this story. I have been writing on it a little at a time, here and there, but the writer's block is the reason for the delay, not because I've lost interest in writing the story or anything like that. Thanks so very much to all my reviewers and readers. I appreciate your patience. Thanks so much for reading. :)

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

* * * * *

_"You cannot run_

_And you cannot hide_

_You've got to face it, baby_

_Things go bump in the night"_

* * * * *

It was his voice. His voice roaring, then just a whisper, threading through the velvet, cobwebby blackness of the haunted house's walls. His voice cut through the soundtrack of Halloween noises: creaky hinges, squeaky mice, barking dogs, girlish screams, groans and moans, disturbing voices crying out, "Boo!" then shrieking giggles.

They couldn't tell right away that his voice didn't belong; but after a couple hours of group after group of kids piling out of the exit, the same reedy alarm barely veiled in their eyes— the proprietors had to ask. The look was a breathless fear, brought on by more than just plastic scares— jangling skeletons and shrieking terry cloth ghosts, or amateur actors in gruesome masks. This look said, _Something's wrong. _This scare was unappreciated; true, they had paid to be scared, but this voice— it brought out the real goosebumps, the prickling on the back of the neck, on the arms, and a persistence to check in on loved ones; were they still okay? Had something bad happened while they had been out having fun?

"It's a man's voice. Yes, kind of a young voice, but older young, you know?" a high school age girl told a proprietor dressed up in Gothic style, the ghoulish mask pushed up on the top of his head. She shook her head once, blond curls half uncurling at her trembling. "He's— yelling for help." She pressed her lips together. "It was just— so real. I didn't like it." For a moment she seemed on the verge of tears.

_Help me. Heeellph . . . uuuh me. _The second set uttered with more gasping breaths, more soggy- messy than the first. Oooey-gooey, but not like carmel apples or gummy worms. More like desperate pleading, through a mouthful of mud— or blood.

They didn't want to break up business by calling the police– but word of mouth could just as easily put them under. They called the police.

* * * * *

T-Rex had come in shortly after Booth's lost battle to mop up the blood from inside his mouth. He figured his lip had been split open; the rest of the skin on his face sore, tender to the slightest touch against the mattress. But he was least bothered by these minor pains. He was shaking inside that he had given in; his training, both as in the military as a sniper and as a FBI agent, had taught him what to never do— and he had done it anyway. At the hands of mobsters who had threatened Parker by waving his son's picture in his face— Booth had managed to keep his silence. Even when they dug the knife into his thigh, when they kicked his ribs repeatedly until he nearly passed out. Despite his stoicism, he had been scared then; but now? The ratio of fear to anger was likely 35: 65.

_They knew everything._ They knew private details, even things Booth was certain he had never even spoken to anyone else other than Parker.

T-Rex yapped to him while she dabbed white cloth against his lips. He struggled, pushing out his bound legs angrily when she pushed the cloth against his teeth. She tsked. "You are blood covered, deary. I can't very well gag you with good conscience unless I get it all out."

Booth froze, staring upwards at her rubber face. A chill went through him; his ratio fear to anger changed to 40: 60. Maybe 45:55. She was putting on a motherly act, but there was no emotion in her voice at all. _Good conscience._ A joke. Another prank.

She dropped the bloodied cloth to the floor when she was done, and tugged the gag back between his teeth. He didn't struggle; his thoughts instead turned towards his son. T-Rex stood. "You should get some rest, Agent Booth. You're going to need it." Booth's brown eyes, flecked with anger, fixed on her mask.

"You see, I have declared for Dr. Brennan three days in which to find you. Or I will— it's too late now to pass off another note." T-Rex sighed. "It's almost Halloween." She cackled under her mask. "And tonight, nearly to the witching hour." She stood over him in appraisal. "Yes, this night will be your most comfortable sleep, while you are with us, that is. You should enjoy it."

Booth tugged angrily at the cuffs, ignoring the metal digging into his wrist. He wanted to demand an explanation, but figured he would never get one, even if he could ask.

His joints were stiff; the only relief he could get involved straightening his legs, and the slight parting of his knees. It was hard for him to process the thought that _this_, lying handcuffed and bound in a cramped position on his side was to be his "most comfortable sleeping arrangements." Booth wouldn't yet admit that felt he scared, though he knew, for the moment, he was practically helpless and in desperate need of a tool to aid in his escape. If he could get the handcuffs off, he could try again what he'd tried earlier, though maybe next time he'd . . . he flinched when he realized T-Rex had her mask bent close to his face.

"You haven't heard a word, have you?" the female voice asked. "Agent Booth, I'm quite disappointed. According to Dr. Brennan, you are usually so attentive and sensitive when it comes to a woman's needs." T-Rex laughed at the irritation that flashed in his eyes. "Well, those weren't, of course, her exact words." She prattled on, seeming to enjoy her captive audience, even though Booth was tuning her out.

"Hey, what are you still doing back here?" Wolfman poked his head in the doorway. "Why the hell are you so close to him?"

T-Rex sat back on her heels, perhaps sighing in an exasperated manner. "I was just talking— don't tell me you're jealous of our hostage."

"Our hostage or yours?" Wolfman snarled back. He had crossed his arms, but in a skinny, non-threatening manner. She stood up quickly, pivoting towards him. Booth noticed, for the first time, that she had a couple of inches on him. She, even in her nondescript shapeless clothing took not only a possessive but also a seductive swagger in the Wolfman's direction.

"What do you think?" T-Rex asked. Unable to turn his head, Booth closed his eyes with disgust.

"Nighty night, Agent Booth," the woman squeaked, closing the door on the her way out. Booth's eyes were still shut until he heard the door being locked from the outside.

* * * * *

Just because the authorities were called in, it didn't keep them from reusing the recording, in other haunted houses, the next night. This next time, they weren't limiting the recording to just one location.

* * * * *

After he yanked on the cuffs until his shoulders, arms and wrists were sore and shaking, Booth had fallen into an uneasy sleep. Because he was helpless, and knew this, he would much rather be alert at all moments. As he slept, he dreamt that a phantom of someone he knew— perhaps Brennan, though she would, Booth mused, likely be so insulted, even as a figment of his dreams, to be considered a ghost— kept watch over him. This ghostly presence pressed against his skin, whispered in his ears, ruffled his hair, all as gently and peaceable as a midsummer breeze. The one thing it could not do was hold onto him or offer anything human, mutter of the palpable worry of his friends, or show off the dark circles under Brennan's eyes or her mussed hair, her features only covered with pale foundation, nothing else.

* * * * *

The day of, their nerves were still frazzled, so early the next morning, Perotta outlined her plan to Cam and the others. When they started interviewing interns, Zach made sure to point out his suspicions about Vincent Nigel-Murray.

Agent Perotta nodded. "Okay, that's a good place to start. Anyone else you feel may be acting suspiciously, or differently, lately?" She addressed the question to everyone, and waited while they thought about it. Perotta informed them that, despite the fact that the reasoning behind the disappearance hadn't yet become clear, the FBI was investigating. Then they got to work, doing what they could to both keep their minds off of Booth and keep him at the forefront, if they happened to discover a person who may know more then they did.

* * * * *

Angela crossed her arms tightly. She had tried to not let Hodgins' theories get to her, but even she had to admit that it was terribly unnerving to think the dangerous pranksters could be among the Jeffersonian— as forensic interns, bone scientists in training. Hiding behind skulls— smirking as they— the ones closest to Dr. Brennan— cringed. She kept going over this latest letter, trying to figure out why the pranksters had changed their game. _Rescue him?_ Had this been in their equation all along or had something "forced" their hands— to take Booth?

"The murder? Of the spider guy?" Angela whispered aloud. _Could it be?_ It made her shiver— all of it. They had already theorized that Carlson may have known his killer, because of the partial skull discovered at his residence— the one missing from the Jeffersonian. She was worried about Booth, of course, but even more worried for her best friend. She knew Tempe well enough to know she didn't know how to deal with things of this nature. And it seemed, unfortunately, due to her extensive and joint work with Booth and the FBI, events of this nature were more and more frequent. Brennan had been a mess— a tangle of emotions, panic and anger the most prevalent— when Hugh Kennedy had gotten his hands on Booth. Angela knew that Tempe couldn't— or wouldn't— recognize it, but she had gone to Max out of love— for Booth. Max was the best, and the worst, and the only one, who could perform that kind of miracle when it involved mobsters.

But now, they just didn't know what had happened. They didn't know, though they speculated, who was involved, or what the motive or motives behind these acts could be. Angela's instincts were to hug— but she also knew Brennan wouldn't respond to that.

Still, it must be eating at Tempe to have no results— Booth only missing for a little less than a day, but missing for any length of time was much too much. Angela tried to put herself in the rational frame of perception, the one in which Brennan, Hodgins and Zach always attacked any situation. It was nearly impossible to ignore her feelings— she was not a scientist. She was an artist, albeit for this job description, a forensic one, but she relied on her emotions to influence her work. She hated to view her unknown coworkers with a distrustful eye.

Angela sighed. Despite not being of the scientific mind, she despised just sitting around, twiddling her thumbs. There were plenty of other cases to work on; she was, but it was difficult to ignore the fact that she wanted to do her part to help get Booth back. She had been amiable towards Booth upon meeting him, because she could sense the warmth of his heart and the life passion of his job— and his continued denied attraction towards her best friend (a mutual denial, it seemed)— just getting a good look at his beautiful brown eyes, his willingness for many smiles showing off his teeth and the laugh lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth. Her lips dipped towards a frown; what if this was one thing they couldn't figure out? Not one by one, not as a team? It was a bit too early for such negative thinking; but she wanted to get it out of the way. Because if the real desperation set in, her mind needed to be prepared— as a team, they _could_ solve anything, including the mysterious vanishing of one of their own.

* * * * *

From the expression of fright across Stan's face, it may have been easy to dismiss that he didn't know his killer— that the face of stranger had startled him enough to twist his features into that of many Halloween masks.

He couldn't claim, not even to his friends, that he had only gone to Stan to talk. There would be, he knew, no coming back. He had not, simply, found the red handled ax with its recently sharpened blade just resting against a wall or on one of the many boxes Stan had packed. Or had he just wanted a scare, a near death scare? Unlike the others, he thrived on bringing the terror of others to the surface; it brought him a euphoria unmatched by anything else. Sometimes, the others played along, or maybe they did enjoy it as much as he did, but not at every moment.

He had wanted to do more than just eggs. Maybe slit the throats of some chickens, leave their carcasses across the windshield of the car. He wanted "Beware" poured out in pig's blood, maybe coated the interior with this mess. He always wanted more, pushing the envelope to that near death scare— to that scare that could stop a heart. They hadn't let him drive; Billy, instead, took the wheel, pulling the black baseball cap low over his brow. Since the windows were tinted, he could, at the very least, press his face against the glass so he could catch the fear contorting Dr. Hodgins' eyes as the car rushed towards him.

He studied himself in the mirror, running both hands through his jet black mop, usually so neatly combed. In spite of the high he got from scaring the crap out of everyone else, he still had a lump in his throat about giving in so easily to Daisy— somehow, he felt that taking this Federal Agent was going to look worse for them than any skirmish gone "wrong" with Stan. He sighed. There wasn't any point arguing with her— despite her willowy frame and pale, slightly freckled cheeks, she did not possess any childlike innocence. Underneath her skin was a hardness where others may bear a soul, always calculating, her mind moving quickly, but with an unhealthy tendency to latch onto those whose intelligence she admired even more than her own. There was no reasoning with her; it was as she said, she would get her way.

Well, the show must go on. And it wasn't going to last forever— he knew already the ending was going to messy and possibly scandalous, but he couldn't place the deadened emotion of why thoughts of the end weren't bothering him more. _Maybe it's just too hard to see from here_, he mused. Of course, he could save them the trouble of waiting— go in right now, confess. He laughed aloud, throwing his head back. She too, knew how it was going to end, well, if not the how or the when, just that it would. Let _her_ confess, let those pranked think she had acted as ringleader, that the others were her directives, her soldiers following orders. No choice.

All he needed was a really good, unscrupulous and highly overpriced lawyer— and he figured he could swing maybe five years max, with probation or mandatory community service to supplement his sentence.

They had, so far, worked as a team, but he was resolved to zone out during anything further involving Special Agent Booth. Though he had joined in the taunting and even got in a few slaps and kicks, he hadn't received any rush from the agent's supposed fear. Maybe because Agent Booth was not afraid? Or because he found himself feeling a little bad for the guy, handcuffed to the bookcase in the back room. With the other pranks— the victims had no chance to gauge their own reactions; fear or confusion or disbelief or horror was immediate, changing the demeanor for even an instant to the consistency of jelly. And besides, they had set those up.

This— this just seemed unnecessarily mean. Which was a strange thought, coming from his strange brain.

Yes, the show must go on. On the inside, he sulked. He knew he would have to help when it came to transporting their prisoner; the unguarded agent had nearly wriggled out of their clutches— then _what_ would she have proposed? He hadn't been blindfolded and because he was a Fed, he'd have to have a honed eye for details; even if he couldn't know the place from its outside, once in. . . . And he'd heard their voices. Surely, also, his trained ear. . . .

It had taken nearly all three of them to confine the agent; he slowly raised his pale eyes to the mirror. Billy had taken credit for gaining control, but he was just as much to blame as . . . he shook his head. He knew the one he should blame, the one whose agenda was difficult to understand— they often played along with her.

He sighed, and turned from the bathroom mirror, flicking off the light as he exited. The house had been felled by silence; he could only hear his breath in the darkness. Might as well try to sleep— tomorrow might last forever, even though they claimed they held all the cards.

* * * * *

Booth jerked awake to a semi-muted darkness, aware of early morning sunlight trying to push itself through the navy blue curtains. As before, he wasn't aware he'd dozed off, but he knew where he was— or rather, he knew of faint details as to why he was bound on his side in this small room. He had become the latest pawn in some nasty game to hurt Brennan; Booth took in some stuffy breaths through his nose. So far, that he knew, Brennan had only been targeted emotionally. The others, with the exception of Cam, who had been the first, had been hurt in the physical; Hodgins was the only one who had refused to see a doctor after his near rundown. Booth found he was puzzled that, now that he thought of it, Cam's "prank" had been so mild. As soon as the thought came, so did other questions. Had it been deliberate to begin with her, with some severe intent but with only destruction of material property in mind? Why had Cam, like Brennan, been spared a greater scare?

"Be quiet!" The shrill voice immediately shredded his deepest thoughts. The door to the small room was closed, but Booth could hear her voice as if she were in the room with him. S_he must be in that common area,_ he thought, just as she yelled out again. "I can't hear myself think!"

In response, a roar of male voices, at least two jabbering at once. She shrieked, cutting into theirs. "This is my show! You all wanted in!"

Booth couldn't tell if one of these others tried to protest, but it seemed for a few moments the house had returned to silence. Then, she.

"You are the one who axed Stan. You did! His own family!" Another quiet pause, then, "I don't care! It's close enough!"

Squabbling brought out, all of the voices yelling at once. Booth wished he could pull his gun on them and maybe fire a warning shot— paperwork be damned, on this one— to make them all shut up. It made sense his head would ache— he arms pulled and pinned crudely behind him, the muscles in his neck, shoulders and back just as tight as when he pulled back to back double shifts.

"_You_ think you make the rules now?" Whomever this woman was, her angry screams were now filling up the house, shoving her voice into all its rooms. Booth imagined this was the kind of pitch that could break glass. "Not on board? We're going through with this. _She_ has to see— that I mean business, that's why!"

Booth closed his eyes. He couldn't do anything now, not like this. He had already exhausted his available options— an escape attempt of sorts, a call for help, tug after tug on his bound limbs— and he only successes: to end up handcuffed to a large stationary object and to cut his wrists raw. Not that he hadn't, in the service or on involved Federal cases, gone without nutrients before— at least he may have had a bare minimum, at least some water or vitamin supplements. His stomach had already growled several times, unpleasantly empty; what he wouldn't give to stretch his cramped limbs, pop his stiff joints. But it was as before— Booth was forced to wait. He had to wait for his captors to make their next move, or for Brennan and the rest to figure out what was going on— and get him out of here.

Seeley shifted, grunting. His left side had gone numb many hours ago, but he tried to keep the ghosts of circulation stirred up every now and then. It hurt, the pins and needles sensation of sleeping or numb limbs, but he knew it was best. As he moved, a memory floated up behind his eyes from— was it yesterday? The days were already starting their blur. The big guy in the Dracula mask, sitting just over there, off to his right, next to the farthest curtained window. He had scolded his captive; Booth had been half surprised that they hadn't beaten him up then and there. There had been this cryptic taunt: _"We'll see if your partner really has what it takes to rescue you— or if you're just going to waste away down there." Huh_. Seeley realized he didn't know what that meant, "down there". Down— down where? Could this house have a downstairs, a soundproof basement room where he might be kept? Wasting away?

Booth narrowed his eyes. Though it was plausible, it didn't sound right.

* * * * *

Stan had originally named their haunted house as both a way to lure younger kids in as paying customers, and as a way to fool people into thinking the haunted house wouldn't be as scary. He called it Junior High Tonight: Haunted House, after a line from a popular Halloween song he'd heard a few years back.

#

_"It's creaking and creeping_

_I move silent in the night_

_(laughter) _

_Could be the boy from next door_

_You'll never guess my disguise_

_(laughter)_

_Kiddies and children fight_

_Pumpkin and candlelight_

_You might be the fearsome one_

_at Junior High Tonight!"_

_#_

The others didn't like it much, but the name stuck, and earned a reputation for being very scary. Even the bravest of junior high boys and girls would, more than often, exit pale, their faces blank. Sure, they would be fine in a couple of days, brag to all their friends or the victims they bullied, that they had survived— but were they all all right? The younger ones didn't often return the next year, but the older ones, the high school and college kids, they thrived in those black-lit rooms, the floors and walls made from packed dirt— an extra thrill to have a real spider the size of a pack of gum or a cell phone creep across the fingers as they waited for the haunted tour to continue.

It was almost funny now, funny in peculiar way, to remember Stan as amiable towards them, and not just during October when they all got together to put on the haunted house.

Yes, those deserving people with their cold hard cash would still want to be scared. The show would have to go on— but this year, to make up for the loss of Stan, an extra bonus within its confines, an unwilling victim, whose muted screams would only twist together with those of so many others. Yes, it was all too possible they might not find him.

* * * * *

Practical as she was, Brennan kept nearly turning to ask Booth a question— get his valued opinion on something, even though she figured herself much smarter than he— only to remember over and over starkly that he wouldn't be there. If he were still in the service, this, his disappearance, would be termed MIA— missing in action. Taken by force, or lost, but not AWOL. Booth wouldn't just run away for any reason and not tell her— would he? Could he? And certainly not— not killed. She had a physiological name for her shivers at this thought— "a bodily function in response to early hypothermia in those creatures warm-blooded"— she paused. If Booth were here he'd scold her playfully: "Can't you just admit you're chilly, and that's all, without all those extra words, Bones?" She could almost see— his face still relatively clear in her memory, then— his brown eyes twinkled warmly and he draped his brawny arm lightly around her shoulder, as if to pull her in close to warm her.

Temperance shook her head. That wasn't real. What was real was upsetting and unpleasant— Booth was missing, whereabouts unknown, with all available arrows pointing to a kidnap— and more than likely the assailants were these pranksters who had targeted her and her colleagues. But— why? Why Booth? Why pick on her to begin with? For as intelligent as she considered herself, she found it difficult to reason with these thoughts, to bring up intelligible resolutions to these questions. _Damn it_— she usually had Booth to bounce off these kinds of things— the "tough stuff" which was, for her, anything having to do with relating on a human level to the living.

She diagnosed her anger and frustration as rational thinking, but found both emotions to be a hindrance; it would, she felt, go much smoother if this mystery that needed solving involved a stranger— a whole skeleton or a pile of unconnected bones with a face recreated by Angela on a piece of paper. Still, then, there would be the urgency of remembrance, of naming the dead, and laying the bones— once a human being— to rest. Brennan did not share Booth's religious beliefs, but she still held onto this processing of death, feeling deep with in her mind that the dead should not be unknown or forgotten.

But Booth wasn't dead. His captors— unless it were some kind of trick, and he wasn't being held anywhere after all— challenged her to come to Booth's aid. _Rescue him? Are you strong enough? Brave enough? Willing? What will you go through to find him, to get him back at your side?_

The examination of the body— they were still waiting for a positive ID on fingerprints, dental records— was routine. Initial findings determined cause of death to be a heavy, sharpened broad blade hacked through the back of the head, hard enough to cleave through the skull. Both she and Zach had found the condition of the man's face— the white hot shock which had knotted up his brow and raised his eyelids and widened his eyes and generally stretched his features, seemingly seconds before his death— to be most unusual, nearly unheard of. Fragments of bone were missing from the scene; not all had been collected in the pool of blood spread out around the body.

How possible or how likely could it be that those missing shards were still stuck onto the murder blade? Or possible that they would be wrapped up in a cloth used to clean the weapon? Least likely, but not yet ruled out, the murderer may have retrieved this pieces as a souvenir. The mere thought made Brennan's nose turn up, even though she had seen things in real time much more gruesome. Zach was researching every possible weapon that could have made an indentation such as that in the skull.

"Dr. Brennan?" Hodgins asked, his blue eyes wide with excitement as he entered her lab.

For the briefest of moments, Brennan experienced a little flutter of her heart— was this good news, about Booth? But then she saw Hodgins wasn't smiling, though his lips were parted as soon as he got her attention. "What is it?" she asked, turning her eyes back to her work on the table.

She listened as Hodgins told her of the strange occurrence at a local haunted house just outside town, a tidbit he'd found out via the Internet, since he was a well-known conspiracy theorist.

"It was just an e-mail?" Brennan repeated skeptically.

Hodgins shook his head. "The police haven't released it to the media yet, but who needs to wait in age of cell phone sized audio recorders? Come on."

"Dr. Hodgins, I'm very busy here."

"This will only take a second. Come on," Jack insisted, giddy. If it were for real, it could be a lead. "I listened to it many times already, but you're the one who should—"

Brennan rolled her eyes, and then gestured to her computer. Hodgins went to it and maneuvered for the right website, turned up the volume on the speakers, and then pressed play. He backed up from the computer, waiting for her reaction. The first time he had heard it, he'd experienced disbelief. But after listening again and again, he'd really believed it was—

"That's Booth," Brennan said loudly. She had whirled to face the computer, as if Booth were just inside that machine, reachable. "That's Booth's voice."


	12. Chapter 12: The Devil Was My Angel

**Chapter Twelve: The Devil Was My Angel, But Now I'm Just Not Sure **

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Author's Note: To all my readers and reviewers so far, thanks for the support. If you are able to spare a few seconds, I would so appreciate feedback or comments about the current chapter or the story; something you liked, if anything, such as a line or a detail, or character interaction, for example, or a question you'd like to have answered next chapter or in the story, etc. I just ask this little favor if it's possible because even a little thing can help inspire the direction of the next chapter, and I would love to be inspired to continue and finish this story, as well as get updates out much sooner. All in all, I want to tell a good story and make it an enjoyable read. Thanks in advance. Happy reading.

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"Isn't it? Isn't it?" Hodgins repeated, his blue eyes extra bright.

"Yes, I just said it was," Brennan said shortly, partially realizing that Hodgins had already been assured of her confirmation the first time. It was a lead, but it wasn't much to go on. "Tell me again where you found this?" She made herself listen, turning herself from the computer screen.

_"Help me. Heeeeelllllpuh me." _Booth sounded like he was speaking with recent hurt in his voice, a deeper pain than just something physical. No matter how irrational, Brennan let a flare of anger overtake her, let her skin get hot with it.

"It was mixed with in one of the local haunted house's audio tracks, you know, those typical Halloween CDs you can buy for parties, moans and screams and such."

Brennan furrowed her brow. "How is that possible? How could it have been mixed?"

"I think it was snuck in as an over-track with use of some extra audio device, like another CD or a tape recorder. Something small that could have been set by the speakers— and fixed for a constant repeat. The bloggers all say the same—"

"On this e-mail you got?" Brennan asked.

Jack shook his head, thumbing over his shoulder at the screen. "On this website, there's already a few blogs and comments about it." He kept talking as she went to the computer to look for the web words. "They basically say that it took people hearing it over and over several times before Booth's voice really started to scare them that something was wrong."

"Why is that?" Brennan asked, her eyes glued to the screen as she use the mouse to scroll down.

"Because, from what they say, they all thought, at first, that it was just another Halloween gag. Like the creaking doors or barking dogs— a prop for the haunted tours." He shrugged when she stole a disbelieving look at him. "Dr. Brennan, from what they say, it wasn't obvious. What would you think if you were in a haunted house and heard something like that?"

"I don't go into those things," she said, "so I wouldn't know."

"Right, right," Jack said, pacing. "So, should I tell Agent Perotta?"

Temperance clicked on the recording again; Booth's warbled cries filled up her lab. The noise actually chilled her— a center of coldness hard in her chest. "Yes," she said, her voice so soft it made Hodgins nervous.

* * * * *

He couldn't honestly say what had changed his mind— Maybe it was that he'd felt something shift inside after this kill— the first, the only. (Though, hadn't he known he was capable? To do what he had to if— and he'd _had_ to. He'd had to.)

Or was it that he wanted—? Like the pranks, had he just wanted more, more?

Bad reasoning, or did it just make sense? It wasn't just because of a flash of anger— or because of the stolen spider. It wasn't because Stan had considered that creepy crawler a trophy, or that he loved running Junior High Tonight like a king on his throne. It was because Stan always had loose gums, wandering hands, a penchant for the bottle after a lucrative night. It was because Stan was leaving that crummy little farm house, because they had argued—

And now, that little bitch was holding it over his head. He scrunched his nose, pausing in the hall. How hard would it be to spin it so that it looked as if he'd been manipulated right along with Billy and Mason— if that was also in their defense?

Quinn shook his head a few times to clear his thoughts. There was a reason he'd come here, not because of remorse, which he felt none regarding the kill, but he had thought about the Fed all night. Quinn had seem him often, in passing at the Jeffersonian, hanging off of Dr. Brennan as if he were some kind of accessory, a life-size ID badge or a pair of tweezers used to pick up the smallest bone fragments, though she was oblivious most of the time to his clumsy affection.

Perhaps it was because those in forensic science— in his case and Daisy's, Dr. Brennan's and other interns and doctors and other various titles in the Jeffersonian— the handling and dealing with dead things, the physical, what remains— required a detachment to accurately perform their duties. "You have to put your heart in a box," he had once overheard Dr. Brennan comment to Dr. Zach Addy; he'd been surprised she could make such a leap with metaphor.

Even so, Dr. Brennan had a good set of morals that did not include senseless acts of violence or forgiveness for premeditated murder. She would argue on good days as well as bad that she performed her job with the same passion as an artist or a business mogul— that she brought life back to those discarded bones, that she brought back the memory of the person, that she gave the skeleton back its face and name, all to bring its pieces rest.

What he had done was almost the opposite, to take a life, stop a heart for real, forever, sever a life force— all things he'd romanticized about the game of fear, but had never actually _wanted_ to try.

Quinn sighed, adjusting the rubber mask against his face. The nose and mouth holes were mere slits originally, but he'd taken a razor blade to the mouth hole; how else could he speak and be understood? It was too late to take it back, as well as what they'd done in their stupid little misfit clique, all the pranks, the abduction— what they were going to do tonight—

He smothered an ironic laugh, putting his gloved hand on the doorknob. No one was around; after their little tiff around 5 am, everyone had scattered. Billy and Mason were probably still asleep, having crashed for more sleep, and Daisy must have left to go to work by now. Quinn could not deny the mean flash of glee he'd experienced when he'd overheard Dr. Brennan's cry; come on, that _was_ fun. But coming back here, nearly ending exposed face-to-face with their latest victim— it had made _his_ stomach tumble.

With the other pranks, they had been close, come close, but there was always some kind of wall separating their targets from them; even if it were an "invisible" wall— it was something. But the Fed was in their kitchen, bound and gagged, trying to make a phone call. Quinn suppressed another laugh, this one nervous. He'd had to handle the consequences of that action straightway, when a couple of uniformed police officers showed up at the door, with their night sticks and holstered pistols, their mace, whatever. He had played it cool, or cold, as apologetic as someone not that sorry could be.

They'd believed him, and had left without asking to search the house. They hadn't even said a word about the peculiar muffled voice probably preserved on some 911 operator's cassette tape; if they weren't going to mention it, neither was he. But he was the only one who seemed to realize they couldn't really keep the Fed here much longer. It was good that the plan was to move him today— and leave the house empty.

Quinn opened the door slowly, glancing back over his shoulder into the darkened stretch behind him. Turning back as he crossed the threshold, he saw that the Fed was awake and alert, giving him the once-over, then once again.

Booth warily watched as one of his captors approached, wearing a mask he hadn't seen before— it was possible this was the same male who'd caught him in the kitchen yesterday. He didn't try to speak, and his muscles were too stiff from too many hours stationary for any attempt at struggle or lashing out. Besides, he was still at an impasse, literally, because of these goddamn cuffs. His belt had been removed, his pockets emptied— it wouldn't have been wise to leave him with a spare key. Booth's eyes flicked to the items tucked under an arm of the Alien— the latest— and, he hoped, last— captor after running his eyes over the mask. It was a rubber contraption like the others', green in color with wide black eyes, a snub nose and flat lips all pressed into its emaciated looking head. Booth could make out the top of a plastic bottle of water, but wasn't certain what the rest of the stuff was.

The Alien paused, looking over Booth as he had looked over his captor, then he spoke. "I don't care how ridiculous this sounds, but I've developed some kind of soft spot for you."

Booth's expression didn't change, and he kept his eyes right on the eyes of the mask. The voice speaking was male— and was the same as the angry voice from the kitchen. It was muffled now, but it was still unmistakable. The timbre carried the slightest whine, a low sound nearly undetectable. It struck Booth that he may have heard this voice before— before yesterday, that was.

"It's lame, I guess, to offer you a fighting chance, since you won't have a fighting chance of getting free later on— not that you do now," the Alien continued with a shrug. He dropped to his knees next to the mattress, setting the supplies in front of him on the floor. Booth eyed them again, realizing there were two candy bars next to the bottle of water. His stomach growled suddenly; he'd suppressed the hunger while his thirst grew and grew.

But why was this one bringing him food, speaking in cryptic riddles? Booth remembered him, suddenly, from yesterday, though he hadn't got a great look at the mask since he was being repeatedly punched in the face.

The Alien sighed, reaching for Booth's gag. "Don't bother yelling," he warned, then added, "you're going to need those screams later."

Booth stared back coldly, tempted to snap at the Alien's fingers like some kind of rabid dog. Instead, he was motionless as the cloth was pulled from his lips. It was a relief; it was soggy, too tight, and partially tasted like blood. He waited to speak, moistening his dry lips with some of the saliva that had been sitting under his tongue. He hadn't realized just how dry they were until now; Booth eyed the bottle of water with lust. "What are you doing?" he rasped, forcing himself to not look at the water.

The question was vague; the Alien didn't answer it right away. "They don't know I'm here," he said instead, with a sigh. "I supposed you haven't eaten." He nodded with his masked head towards the candy. "It's not much, but well, it's something." He reached for one of the bars on the floor with his gloved fingers, unwrapping it as he continued to speak. "See, I know her— she'll want you to pass out yelling your head off— which you still might." He gave a low chuckle under the mask, pulling the paper off of the bar, something nougaty, covered with a layer of chocolate. He paused. "I didn't want to do this— take it this far." He pushed the candy bar against Booth's lips, but Seeley turned his head.

"It's not too late to let me go," Seeley said, his voice low. "If you don't want to do this—"

The Alien chuckled again. "Oh, no, you misunderstood me." He thrust the candy bar towards Booth's mouth again in an almost threatening command. "I wanted to do— well, the original plan." He sounded like he was smirking under the mask. The sweet smell of the chocolate invaded Booth's nostrils; in the past, he'd gone days, weeks without food; there were times during his days as a sniper when the rations didn't reach him as regularly as they should. He learned to go without. On the other hand, this wasn't the jungle and he didn't know what he might be facing in a few hours time. It might help to take in some calories; still, he was leery, as if he suspected the candy might be poisoned.

"Don't tell me you aren't hungry," the Alien said when Booth still wouldn't take a bite. He continued to hold the candy in front of Booth's mouth until Booth started to fill dizzy and painfully aware of his empty stomach. He gave in, taking the overly sweet chocolate-peanut-nougat combination into his mouth. The Alien nodded knowingly, feeding him the candy in silence. Booth wasn't aware that he'd eaten both in the span of a few minutes. His captor uncapped the water and tipped it so it fell into Booth's mouth, another substance Booth took in greedily, barely aware of sucking down the whole of its contents in less than a minute.

With the food and water gone, Booth pressed his face against the mattress, once again painfully aware of his stiff muscles. He hadn't succeeded in getting any of the restraints loose or even loosened; he hated that he'd been forced into such a helpless position. "Why did you do that?" Booth asked, feeling more clarity forming questions now that he had some nourishment.

"What?" The Alien asked, swinging his knees out from under him so he could sit on the floor next to the mattress instead of kneel. "Feed you? Show compassion?" He shrugged. "Don't ask me."

He snorted. "My posse would— never believe it. But I don't like it that—" He looked away, leaving Booth to wonder if he was looking for something in the room or seeing a memory.

"You don't like what?" Booth pressed, stretching out his fingers behind him. His knuckles popped.

The Alien looked back to him. "Stuff," he replied vaguely with a sigh. "But what's done is— done."

"No, look, you can end it," Booth tried, pressing his shoulder blades together to stretch out his neck. It was a mistake that sent a spasm of pain down the right side of his body. He suppressed a groan. "Just untie me, help me get out of here, and I will tell the authorities you cooperated. It will look better for you." He tried to look at ease, as if he were telling the whole truth.

The Alien guffawed. "You— you Agent Booth, are very funny. And very wrong. I think it's a little too late in this game for me to have a change of heart."

Booth could pick up, even through the mask, the now somber tone of its male occupant. He was clearly speaking as if something, other than Booth's kidnapping and the culmination of the pranks, had transpired, and was in a place of no take backs. But surprisingly, he bred a sense calmness, as if he expected whatever might— would— be coming to him.

"If you can aid in my escape," Booth began, licking his lips to ready them for one of the speeches he'd already prepared, but the man under the mask was too quick.

The Alien chuckled softly. "No, I can't. Even if I did, I can't see how there would be any leniency left for me." He paused, looking over his shoulder at the closed door, thinking of his loyalty— what was left of it. They were all going to go down, he'd make sure of it— Daisy would make sure of it— and, looking back to Booth, he knew Booth would make sure of it. They were all going to go down together. "And, I can't make any claims that I didn't enjoy it, at least some of it."

The Alien sounded like he was smiling, Booth thought.

"Some of it— it was a blast. A real nice break up of the humdrum days. I like the scares, but honestly—" He'd turned back and was staring at Booth through the glassy wide black ovals of the mask. "I never thought she'd be as half-brained as she was to go through with a kidnapping."

But she did have a certain way about her— sweet, when you first looked, until she really opened her mouth and let her obsessions flow. She wasn't shy about them either, and really knew how to work out her mojo and get all the boys she wanted wrapped around her little fingers. Though, he figured he wasn't in as deep as Mason— and Billy was doing this because he liked to muscle his way through things.

"I really loved scaring Dr. Hodgins," the Alien admitted. "That was my favorite. In my opinion, he got what he deserved."

_Oh, no._ Booth remained expressionless while several thoughts twisted through his head. This was sounding more and more like a personal vendetta— _personal_ being the key word. This man or kid or whatever he was before Booth knew Dr. Hodgins— and Booth was guessing it wasn't from the high society parties Hodgins was always finding excuses to duck out of. "Why do you say that?" Booth asked, his tone staying neutral.

"I'm not a complete fool, Agent Booth," the Alien said. "I may be scared, which is, I'm certain, some kind of poetic justice for the things I've fearlessly done—" He scoffed at himself. "I've already said too much as it is. Guess I know, like she does, that it's not going to matter much— truth coming out in the wash or whatever." He sniffed, though it was barely audible through the rubber face. "But I know you're right. If I was smart, I'd turn you loose. Bet I'd get a nice kick to the 'nads from you too, but I couldn't say I was wholly undeserving of it." Again, Booth had the sense that he was smiling or amused. Pretty bold words coming from some kid— but it wasn't unheard of, especially in his line of work, to come across those with some kid of god complex, or over-inflated sense of self, or skewered reality.

The woman in the T-Rex mask, she definitely fit well into this last category. Booth wasn't completely sure how to label this one. The guy was bad but he knew it, and wasn't trying to conceal that much. He had definitely been right about Booth wanting to kick his 'nads though, maybe break the kid's nose too, just to get a point across. Self-defense, not FBI brutality. Right. And if Brennan were here, she would be able to run with this, even supporting his reactions with some of her anthropologic mumbo jumbo stuff. Right?

The sad part was that she would be able to justify it— though it would be hard to admit to herself the exact reasons why. Booth had spent time thinking about it, in between trying to formulate a way out of here, actions he'd take as soon as he was freed. The two of them had been teetering on— and perhaps off— of something for a while, something a few steps beyond their amiable working relationship. Neither of them wanted or knew how to take that next step, or leap, into what exactly a kiss or something more might mean— _we don't want to screw things up,_ Booth thought.

"What are you doing with that?" Booth asked nervously, eyeing the small brown bottle the Alien had removed from a pocket, which he opened within a few twists, placing the cap on the floor. With the other hand, the Alien produced a cloth, and tipped some of the bottle's contents onto the fabric. Booth got a noseful in the waft of chemicals as they settled into the cloth's fibers. "What are you planning to do with me?"

"You can't fight this," the Alien told him. "At least, not now." He pressed the chemical soaked cloth towards Booth's face. Booth jerked his head but only succeeded in further wrenching his neck. He gritted his teeth, holding his breath, which he decided was an awful idea once the cloth was fully held over his mouth and nose. The first inhale burned the inside of his mouth and nostrils so badly that moisture surged to his eyes.

* * * * *

"Me?" Vincent Nigel-Murray repeated nervously, pressing the knuckles of his loose fists together as Agent Perotta questioned him. "Wha— what did I do? Or rather, what is it you think?"

"How did you know about this partial skull?" Perotta asked evenly, practiced when it came to this kind of questioning. She was firm without being snappish or accusatory; this could go nowhere and if she needed to take this candidate later as a witness rather than as a suspect or person of interest, she'd rather he not become tight lipped or cower in a corner, afraid of her. Though, the FBI still brought on a layer of fear— and for most, a desperate survival instinct to cooperate— unless the person were hiding something.

Vincent explained it to her, exactly what he had told Dr. Addy.

Perotta was careful not to make implications or accusations with these routine questions. If he was guilty, he would try to hide it; eventually wanting to tell his side of the story. But other than being twinged with nervousness, this intern didn't appear to be hiding anything. She smiled professionally, trying to move this along. "Do you like interning at the Jeffersonian Institute, Mr. Nigel-Murray?"

Vincent sat up straighter, some of the nervousness falling away. "Yes," he said with sincerity. "This Forensic Science program was number one of my top ten; I— I studied overzealously at my private schools to be noticed for such a prestigious position."

Perotta continued her tight smile. "You are still a graduate student, an intern— and you consider this 'a prestigious position'?"

For a moment, Vincent seemed flustered, then he blurted out, "Did— did you know, Special Agent Perotta, that La Paz, the capital city of Bolivia, is the highest capital in the world at over 17,000 feet?"

Perotta's smile dropped, and she raised an eyebrow with confusion. "What?"

"I mean, uh, what I meant was, I feel gracious to be a part of such a highly regarded, well-known and prestigious center— the Forensic Science Graduate Program under the tutelage of the intelligent and rational Dr. Brennan. I want to achieve a personal best, and I feel this is center in which I will do so." Vincent tried out a watery smile, and then lost it while asking, "My student performance is not 'in the red', as you Americans say, is it?"

Perotta sighed, ignoring his question. "Do you like Dr. Brennan?"

Vincent nodded. "Well, I must correct that," he amended.

"You don't like her?" Perotta cut in.

"No, it isn't that," Vincent said. "As an instructor, she is exacting and rational, possessing a high stature intelligence, and I do like that about her. But as a person, I would have to say that I don't know her very well, such as her favorite, uh, noodles or if she celebrates Easter, I don't know those things." He shrugged. "She doesn't often share personal details about herself," he added.

Perotta nodded; she had heard something similar from time to time from Agent Booth, how closed off Dr. Brennan was on a personal level. She asked the same thing of Vincent about the others who worked alongside Dr. Brennan, and received similar responses. It seemed he only possessed general knowledge of the rest, with a few personal details here and there that some of them had shared. Eventually, Perotta concluded that Dr. Addy's suspicions had been off— this intern seemed clean. She sent him on his way, telling him to nudge whomever was waiting next to come into the office.

A young, twenty-something thin and willowy woman entered, nervous energy filtering through her dark brown eyes. She stepped forward with purpose towards Agent Perotta, her long brown hair flopping in her ponytail as she stretched out her arm to shake Perotta's hand. "Daisy Wick," the young woman introduced with a large smile. "How can I help?"

* * * * *

She scrawled it out in the same painstaking penmanship as the letter she'd already slipped in Dr. Brennan's desk drawer. The individual letters of this little ditty she scripted in mock Gothic calligraphy, even sketching a horrible rendition of a Jack-o'-lantern next to the phrase "All Hallows Eve". She was impressed she had been able to manage something this coherent, since her college English classes had always brought headaches rather than appreciation for verse. But she had completed this task with love and by picturing Dr. Brennan's shocked face over and over, the horror and disgust she was certain to feel for the perpetrator— and she planned to be near, sympathetic, maybe even a shoulder to lean on or cry on when Brennan made the discovery— _oooh,_ it tickled Daisy down to her toes.

Unnoticed, she was usually unnoticed, she entered Dr. Brennan's office, dropping the letter on the top of a pile of neatly placed file folders. She grinned, unable to turn off her smile as she had read and reread her taunt. She loved to have Dr. Brennan over a barrel; it seemed the only way to get this genius to pay attention to her. After this note, it was time to swoop in, to hand Brennan tissues and speak with a golden tongue— and to take care to sound less giddy and more anxious that that pretty male FBI agent of hers had gone missing— _but,_ Daisy cautioned herself, _only if Dr. Brennan brought it up first._ In time, Daisy was confident that she was going to get what she wanted— to be near her idol on a daily basis. Dr. Brennan would see what a mistake she'd made giving Dr. Addy his old position back.

Hmm, maybe a few more spiders in with his lab equipment might not hurt.

#######################

_In three nights' time,_

_All Hallows Eve, -(;})  
_

_—We goblins will do what we please—_

_We invite QoD to join our rhyme_

_To salvage a brave one on his knees_

_—We hold the cord to the guillotine—_

_If you pick the wrong door _

_We will keep him here— never_

_to see the sunlight's glance_

_(until he is only bleached bones)_

_Take the chance?_

_#####################  
_

_You're losing daylight_

_####################  
_

* * * * *

The note had been folded crisply in half, and on its outside, cut from the ransom style letters they had seen already on every note, these words: _"You're losing daylight."_

Tempe stared at it, torn between grabbing it and leaving it alone, as if by doing so would make everything less real. Then, like a heartbeat, like breathing, his name was on her tongue. _Booth, Booth._ She bounded to her desk; how many people could have been in and out of her office while she was in the lab with Hodgins? How did they go unnoticed? Was Agent Perotta all the way through the interviews and had she come across nothing suspicious? Did none of the interns hold some kind of hidden agenda, one of the nastiest sort? Had they been wrong about all of this sabotage taking place from the inside?

But, if that were true, how did this note get here? Brennan opened it, scanning the lines quickly before taking her time with each one.

Halloween night was in three days— well, technically, two, because this was the mid-morning of October 29th.

Clutching the paper tightly, Brennan stormed out into the hall. She was fighting angry tears, torn between who would be more qualified to analyze this poem, Cam or Angela. She wasn't sure what she should do, or to whom she should turn. _I need Booth, I need him here, right now. _The imperfect lines of verse raced through her mind, poking with the most vicious words, like "guillotine", "wrong door", "keep him here", "bleached bones". Brennan was nearly overcome with that need again, a physical need to embrace Booth and know that he was okay. She wanted to feel his arms around her, feel his heartbeat against her own. "I'm losing daylight," she muttered, stopping at Cam's door since it was closest. She pushed the door open, not bothering to knock.

* * * * *

When he woke up, it was much, much worse than the first time he'd been ambushed and chloroformed— his forehead and temples thudded as if being repeatedly hit with a hammer from the inside. Booth groaned, slumping against the hard surface at his back. As if in a state of suspended animation, Booth paused in adjusting to his surroundings as the pain took full control for a long time.

It was dark, the black smothering dark, and he couldn't see anything. Slowly, one by one, his senses compensated for his lack of seeing. First, touch, feel— the clothes on his skin felt different than the clothing he'd been wearing since his abduction— kind of scratchy, thin. There was some kind of fabric around his hands. He was gagged again, very tightly, and there was . . . something else around his whole face. It didn't hurt, whatever it was, but it was resting against his skin uncomfortably, and Booth wanted to move it it away. Booth tried to cry out; his stifled voice came out in stumbles, and Booth noticed that his lips had brushed up against a hard, smooth surface— part of whatever was resting on his skin. He shook his head, trying to get whatever it was to come loose, but it held as if it were now a part of him; Booth was suddenly racked with chills.

This sensation startled him mostly because they sent him rocking back against the hard surface again— and he was startled to discover that he was almost upright. The backing was tilted, as if it were leaning against a sturdier foundation, like a wall or a— heavy piece of furniture. What— what was it, this thing he was on? He tried to bounce it, push it, anything, and discovered it was solid, unmoving— _ouch, okay, so it hurt like hell to try to knock his head into it._

_Where am I?_ Booth wondered, shifting his stiff muscles with a groan. His sense of hearing sharpened, Booth heard a clinking of metals knocking together— and for the first time since he'd been abducted, a terrible panic overtook him, completely canceling out the pain in his head. He couldn't move either of his arms very far, but each time he tried, metals grated together with an unpleasant hollow clanging. He knew, even through the panic, that he had been bound again, but this time the bracelets he was imprisoned in were not his own. He couldn't see them to confirm what exactly they were, but he would guess manacles. At some point in his unconsciousness, he had been chained to the solid frame of an object tall and wide enough to contain his size and shape. Booth tried to move his legs only to make a similar discovery about them.

Their words, all their horrible, cryptic words rushed back like water breaking through a dam, filling up his head among the crevices of the inner hammer beating. Overwhelmed with stimulus, Booth fought for control with yells, struggling wildly against whatever it was keeping him in place, but the chains held, rattling and clanking as if he were some olden day ghost, dragging the pains of earthly weight down the hall.

In the rest of the silence— it was eerily silent, Booth realized, his heart pounded like an angry fist on a door within his chest, the taunting voices of his abductors' still twisting through his consciousness. He knew he shouldn't let this anxiety shake him out of thinking clearly, but he knew absolutely nothing. He didn't know if the situation at hand was dire, how much danger he was in, either physically or mentally, or if he'd been abandoned somewhere unknown to die— alone. Booth's limbs went limp as fear crept through him, starting at his toes, working its way up until his entire body was infected. It was only a short time before his mind was affected—

Booth twisted slowly in each direction, trying to get a handle for how he had been strapped to this thing, and if there was some way out. His heart raced faster and faster in the darkness as he found he could hardly move because everything was too tight. His range of motion was very limited; he was straining his wrists against the thick cuffs, but he suspected he could only raise his arms three inches. Booth felt the panic inside his mouth, on its roof, as if it were a hornet stinging him repeatedly. In other dangerous, life threatening situations, there had been fear in spite of his extensive training, but he could always overcome the fear while he was taking action of some kind— acting, not thinking endlessly about all the horrible ways he was probably going to die. But now at this juncture, there was no action he could take. He was stuck, and he was hopelessly scared, even more so when Parker's face weaved into his thoughts. _I'll never see him— no, no, no! _Tucking the image of his son safely to the side, Booth thought of the one person who would not ever give up searching for him, focusing on her face until his heart rate steadied. He took up a silent mantra, repeating the words until the rhythm became as natural as breathing.

_Brennan will find me. Brennan will help me._ _Brennan will. . . ._


	13. Chapter 13: Don't Know If The Dead Talk

**Chapter Thirteen: I Don't Know If The Dead Can Talk To Anyone**

* * *

Disclaimer: Both "Hop Frog" and "The Cask of Amontillado" are short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, and I do not own references to either. I also do not own _Frankenstein_ or _Cat People_. Don't own the lyrics to "Hello Halloween" by Boris Heckaty and the Halloweenies. Don't own Jell-O. Minor reference to Season One's "The Skull in the Desert", Season Two's "The Killer in the Concrete", plus minor references to other episodes.

Author's Note: Thank you so much to all for your wonderful reviews and detailed feedback. Everything said really helped to shape the direction of this chapter, so thank you again for your time and words! I so appreciate more of this feedback, what you liked, what you would want to see more of, etc. Thanks in advance. :)

I've had extreme writer's block for this story so I can't guarantee when the next update will be but I do want to finish this story so I'm going to keep working on it. Thanks for your patience waiting. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.

* * *

_"Get on the scene in a ghost machine_

_It's the time to scream_

_'Cause it's Halloween!"_

_* * * * * _

"Dr. Brennan?" Cam asked, looking up from her desk as Brennan entered. Her tone was mixed with surprise and reprimand, but she stood up suddenly as she caught the haunted look spreading across Dr. Brennan's face.

"This, this," Temperance said, flapping the note in the air as if she had clarified everything.

"What is it?"

"I don't know—I mean, it's a poem, I think. I think it says we're running out of time."

"Okay," Cam said slowly, coming around her desk to take the paper from Brennan, who was partially frozen in the doorway. She took the note, glancing quickly at the ransom-style clipped letters on the front before reading the verse, first silently, then aloud. She tried to keep her eyes off Brennan, who was giving off a wobbly sense as if her limbs were now made from Jell-O. It was unnerving to see the rational doctor and top forensic anthropologist falling apart this way.

This was such a far cry from the simple, paltry notes they'd already received that Cam wondered if this was some kind of joke. A sick one, even sicker than the notes—but she still had a small hope.

* * *

_In three nights' time,_

_All Hallows Eve,_

_—We goblins will do what we please—_

_We invite QoD to join our rhyme_

_To salvage a brave one on his knees_

_—We hold the cord to the guillotine—_

_If you pick the wrong door _

_We will keep him here—never_

_to see the sunlight's glance_

_(until he is only bleached bones)_

_Take the chance?_

* * *

_You're losing daylight_

* * *

_Goblins—QoD— _"QoD? Cam said aloud, confused until she raised her eyes to Dr. Brennan's face. Her hope was dashed that this poem was only harmless.

"It's me," Brennan said quietly.

"'Brave one on his knees'," Cam read, nodding. "So, our pranksters/Booth's abductors are the goblins, Booth is the brave one, and you're the—"

"I'm the Queen of Death."

Cam was surprised to hear the emotion in Dr. Brennan's tone; then again, this was _Seeley_. She scanned the rest of the verse, falling back on her decade's old experience as a police officer to pull out the passages which suggested the pranksters believed they held all of the control, marveling briefly over how cocky and how audacious they were—or at the very least, the person who had written this "note". She wondered, from experience, if they were dealing with amateurs—or even youthful criminals—because of the methods which they carried out their "pranks", and that they considered the attacks "pranks" at all.

"It shouldn't bother me, the moniker," Brennan broke in, uncaring that Cam did not look up from the paper. Brennan took a deep breath. _But it does. _

Cam refused to be baited by that statement, knowing if she even attempted to offer her version of why it was natural, even in their line of work, to be bothered or sickened, Dr. Brennan would find a way to counter her with her own scientific rational thought processes—even if Brennan was the one who brought up the subject in the first place. Cam had learned, through multiple dealings with Dr. Brennan that her brain was wired differently—drawn to the coldness of science, the figures and facts of the identification of human remains, of what did or did not cause a subject's death, and ultimately, a resolution to put the remains to rest. She pursed her lips, knowing "coldness" wasn't the most appropriate word choice; but also that the pursuit of scientific means left little wiggle room for emotional attachments; in a way, Cam thought, it was rational not to get attached to every victim—every set of bones. It was not unlike the stated "coldness" in law enforcement; having "feeling" for every victim only made cops vulnerable, easy targets for heart attacks and bullets—there wasn't much room to be soft. But that didn't mean passion couldn't be a viable objective—passion to solve the crime, passion to put a name and face to the victims, passion for justice.

"We're smart," Cam said, finally looking up with purpose.

Brennan raised her eyebrows. "What—"

"I believe we are much smarter than these"—Cam tapped the paper with a flick of finger—"than these 'goblins', Dr. Brennan."

"He shouldn't have been caught up in this," Brennan muttered, as if she hadn't heard Cam speak.

"Seeley can—Booth," Cam amended quickly, "can handle himself, in any situation."

Brennan felt her forehead crease as her mouth pulled into a tighter frown. "I can assess that, based on the facts that he's told me of his former duties as sniper in the military, that what you say is more than likely true, but—" she broke off as her thoughts wandered into illogical territory that she couldn't possibly voice aloud. _But my heart hurts. Hurts, knowing he's not here. That he's been . . . taken from . . . me. _Physically, she knew this was untrue: her heart was healthy and in perfect working order. Yet there was something inexplicable when it came to Booth—though it may be boiled down "easily" to pheromones and natural chemical reactions.

Still yet, before her, her superior was talking about "goblins" (she had heard, she admitted to herself then)—metaphors, or identifiers for the nameless faceless evils. She was a scientific person; grasping metaphors was nearly as incomprehensible as differentiating sarcasm or humor in general from what she could state as fact. The whole processes were mind numbing for her . . . as was this great predicament with her heart "telling" her—her emotions "telling" her that Booth was . . . that it was unfair (so unscientific a word choice) that the one time she willingly let Booth out of her sight, to "go it alone"—albeit at a routine questioning, he'd been—

"Guh," Brennan mumbled under her breath, causing Dr. Saroyan to pause in her theories.

"What's the matter?" Cam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Brennan shook her head, knowing the mess of confusion inside wouldn't be solved in just a few moments, especially not when she couldn't even sort out which terminology she needed to use how to phrase it all. Instead, she said, "We can lose anymore daylight. Or night light. Or—er—how are we going to figure this out?"

Cam pursed her lips, trying to understand what she was seeing before, what she was hearing in the falls of breath under Dr. Brennan's tone—she was failing at neutral, at the usual exacting precision in which she executed her words. Cam could understand why, even if Dr. Brennan was remiss in admitting it to herself.

"They want us—you, us—to play their game. They are giving us a fighting chance—or at least a fighting warning—to find Booth. They—" Cam smiled ironically. "They know we're smart, Dr. Brennan. But . . . this is a dare."

"A dare?" It was Dr. Brennan's turn to raise her eyebrow. She started to ask how much time Cam might have been spending with Hodgins; her own few minutes listening to him playing the recording of Booth's voice had made _her_ a tad paranoid.

Cam nodded. "But they think they are smarter than we are."

Brennan wrinkled her nose. "How do you know they think that?"

Cam tapped the paper with the verse. "They think they have us down, to the"—she coughed—"to the letter."

At first, Brennan looked like she might argue, but then said, "To the _letters_." She closed her eyes for a moment, even though her brain could work just as well with them open. _This _had_ to be—an inside infiltration. _She sized Cam up with a steely glint in her eye. "I—I have to be the one who—no, we have to be the ones who talk to the interns, not Perotta," she devised. "We're the ones who will know—who can figure this out. Because we're smarter than the average _Ursus Americanus_."

Cam nodded, with a trace of smile. "Bear," she repeated. She raised her eyebrow again. "Where did you pick that one up?"

She shrugged. "It might be a Booth-ism," she suggested, then paused. "Did I make a joke? Because I was trying to be serious, Dr. Saroyan."

Cam nodded again, swallowing her smile. "I know."

_* * * * *_

He drifted for a little while like this caught in the mantra, unaware that it had steadied his breathing, his racing heart, and had diminished a small portion of his fear for the time being. When he opened his eyes to the dark again, the fear fluttered in his chest like a moth under glass, but he barreled through, trying to rationalize the conversation he'd been having with the Alien before he'd been knocked out. Why the candor? Why had the Alien seemed extra invested in the prank against Hodgins? And why did the Alien's voice seem familiar?

And was there a chance he knew something about the body Booth had stumbled upon? Could that be—?

_Conversation with the Alien._ It should have been something which struck him as funny, or at the least made him mad, but these thoughts caused the tiny fears to magnify. For a few seconds at a time, Booth could retreat into his mind, pretend that he hadn't been confined in this way—brought to wherever "here" was, and with the possibly of being left here to die, unable to scream or defend himself. He wanted to think clearly, to not panic. He wouldn't consider himself claustrophobic, but it continued to unnerve him that he couldn't see anything in front of him, that dark was pressing on him as much as the restraints that held him to . . . whatever this was behind him.

Booth huffed, taking in air rapidly through his nose. He knew what he was doing, but he couldn't stop until he felt lightheaded enough to pass out. He didn't, but he enjoyed the momentary relief of the darkness of his own making, the brown electric charges sparking in the heavy blackness before his eyes. There was nothing there, he knew it, but his fears were becoming too palpable, so much so that he could taste them—

_Will you get a grip?_ a voice yelled within his own head. Booth moved his tongue against the gag. _Right, not helping._ The best thing to do—the only thing he could do—was think this through and try again to glean any information possible from what had been said. _Act like an Army Ranger—a Federal Agent. Act like yourself. _

The pep talk worked for a few minutes, until Booth couldn't resist yanking on the manacles again. He yelled out in frustration, then let his shoulder blades and head slump against the heavy rectangle or square at his back. The cloth and whatever it was over his face effectively muffled his cry, causing his gut to twist again.

He was not used to this, being helpless. Not only did he see this injustice as an insult to his manliness, but he was hardly ever out of control. He had been abducted before, held for days, tortured; he had experienced some PTSD following Howard Eps' death, and there were times during his years as a sniper when he'd been caught in a hole, dodging gunfire for days, cupping rainwater into his mouth.

_Brennan_ . . . he'd wanted to spend some time with her on the drive out to Stan Carlson's decrepit old shack. He'd wanted to . . . show her a good time this Halloween . . . just a relaxing night for once, watching some classic horror movies, even those in black and white, like _Frankenstein_ or _Cat People_, passing out candy after taking Parker door-to-door in his mini Superhero/Cowboy/Pirate/Spaceman costume . . . Booth's chest clenched. He hated to feel weak, to be weak—in this case, weak because the chains were stronger than he was. He prayed for strength, the kind which he hoped would come in excessive quantities to help see him through this, to the moment which he had reoccurred since he'd woken restrained in that house—that since he could not help himself, Brennan would help him. She had come to his rescue before—and he did have all the faith that if anyone could find him, it was her.

She had even turned to her estranged father for help after hed vanished trying to identify Kennedy. Continuous thoughts of her coming to his get him when Gallaghar and his associate grabbed him were among the reasons he hadn't cracked then. He'd also known that he would be dead the second he cracked, so had rationalized that enduring extreme pain was better than getting killed.

But this, all of this, had been different. His abductors weren't planning his death; well, at this moment, in this place, Booth couldn't be entirely certain of that. But by the way he was restrained and silenced—another wave of fear tossed over him, further stiffening his tightly stiffened muscles. He couldn't say why, but a couple stories he'd read a long time ago in high school filtered back through the small squarish mesh over his brain, seeping into his bones. There was a story by E.A. Poe called "Hop Frog" . . . and another called "The Cask of Amontillado", the details of each getting skewered and speared by his fear soaked thoughts. Unable to speak . . . bound . . . treated as fools for their foolishness, their cruelties . . . a man tricked by what he saw was a companion, luring him to his death by promise of his greatest weakness . . . walled in . . . or burned alive. . . .

The ghosts or ghosts of ghosts Booth had "sensed" while he was captive in the house were no longer present; only deadening stretches of black silence. The only noises he could hear distinctly were the thundering of his heart about to pump from his chest and his huffed, hitched breathing. When he pulled against the chains, he heard the clinking and thought he could hear no ghosts because he was now the ghost.

Something very much akin to delirium struck him, bubbling up a laugh Booth did not even know had been resting at the bottom of his throat. He laughed mirthlessly into the gag, wrenching his body back and forth to limits of the chains. There was a chance, wasn't there, if he really gave all his strength, he could break out—or, if not out of the manacles than at least whatever they were secured to. Booth pulled harder, breathing hard through his nose at the exertion. _It was going to work. It _had_ to work. . . . _The fit subsided under less than a minute, leaving Booth reeling, feeling physically weaker than he before. He wanted to sleep, but was partially too scared to, so he settled for closing his eyes.

Time passed, or maybe not at all. Booth's subconscious seeped from his pores, like sweat, coating him, until he was knee deep in his own thoughts. Spools of his conversation with the boy? young man? unraveled before him. Before he could allow himself to fully consider them, he scolded himself, _You can't do this, you have to get calm._ He again begged his heart to stop racing at a pace readying to implode. _You can't. Parker. Parker needs you. _For the life of him, he could not explain why he was _this_ frightened. He wasn't usually possessed by an irrational fear of the dark—uh—darkaphobia. He giggled again, knowing this was a made up name; if Brennan were here, he would have just earned a stern look from her while she corrected him, explained the word's origins and then pulled out a "real life hundreds of years ago example", or make a reference to regional or cultural belief systems—something he'd catch only partially, as if traveled out of his "other" ear. _In one ear, out the other._ Another giggle.

It subsided quickly to silence as Booth wondered suddenly if he had been dosed with something—maybe it had been more than chloroform in that bottle. Or . . . something after? It satisfied as an explanation, but he couldn't be sure it was entirely true.

In the darkness, he felt his skin flush. _Have to . . . bide my time. Don't know . . . how long I've been here . . . how long I'll be here. _This second calming mantra worked, at least sustaining him. He guessimated that the chloroform put him out for a span from a half an hour to an hour— however much time was needed to bring him . . . wherever here was. To get him tied up in this way. Booth sank against the hard surface at his back as his heart sank again; he continued to hope this was a horrible, nasty nightmare. Yet, the alternative seemed nearly as bad—a prisoner in the place he had been already, his fate in the hands of some likely teenagers in masks.

Booth sighed, his breath shuddering in his ears as he exhaled.

_Why, why would the boy—man?—suddenly have a change of heart? Remorse? What had he done? He'd alluded to something . . . but was it more than just the abduction?_ The questions piled up faster than Booth could answer, some repeating themselves several times.

Sweat beaded under the attachment to his face. Forcing himself to be patient, Booth took in the questions slowly with each breath, exhaling just as slowly.

_"I think it's much too late in the game for me to have a change of heart." _Seeley shifted, recalling the likely young man under the alien mask's tone—heavy. After that, the rest of the conversation rolled back to him—as he continued to breathe evenly. He could do this, drift through the past and look for tells—for anything that could help him identify his attackers, captors—to sort the details of their subtly confessed crimes—so heÕd have it all in one place once the time came that he was free—and could get back to work.

Get back to her.

An unearned relief waved over Booth, he let himself straighten backwards against the hard surface holding him. He could get through all of this if he had a goal. Survival was key, but it could only aid him to visualize Brennan figuring out what was going on with her overly large brain—a thought that made Booth smile to himself, because he knew Brennan would only correct him with some of her scientific mumbo-jumbo in detail just how wrong that statement was. Warmth spread across his torso, from inside, strangely soothing him in his sweat-soaked, still fear laden state.

Again, he let himself drift, pretending he was far from his body, that he was already free. He knew he couldn't stay like that; he had to halt his fear as best he could and formulate a plan. But for now, he drifted, and in his drifting, she turned to him, put her hand on his shoulder, against his cheek. _"Booth," she whispered. Booth."_

_* * * * *_

On his way into see Perotta, Hodgins passed a thin woman with a long, brunette ponytail dangling down her back, her prominent forehead striking him. He recognized her briefly, but her face didn't exactly register. The expression on her mouth, a large set of lips pulled across her face, caught him, but he didn't have a chance to get a look at her eyes.

"Agent Perotta!" he called out, his hand curled around the door handle.

Perotta looked up for her notes, raising her eyebrows. "You don't look like an intern—oh, wait, you're—" She scrunched her forehead, waiting.

"Dr. Hodgins," Jack introduced quickly, ignoring that she had forgotten, or pretended to forget, that they had already met. "We've got something—about Booth."

"What? What is it?"

Neither noticed the figure who'd paused outside the partially closed door, jutting her bony hips towards the conversation with interest.

She had been practicing, not for Agent Perotta, but just in general, with Mason helping her. How not to sound pathologically excited, how to blink more than she was used to. To come off as . . . normal. She wanted to gush with the passion of a child on a sugar high when Dr. Brennan was mentioned, but she had pushed out her answers in the voice of the scientist. Her heart fluttered.

She was going to get away with this. She had explained her smile, her extra blinks, easily like a lie.

Daisy, though giddy at this new development, detached herself from the wall before too long. She walked off neutrally, doing as she was told to send the next intern Agent Perotta's way, pretending that she didn't know what was now going on. In the hallway, she hid her smile behind a cupped hand, disguising it as a long yawn.

By now—by now— It had been _so hard_ not to think about it during her interview with the stand-in Federal Agent. She was torn—how much she wanted to dash off for a visit, but figured she couldn't inconspicuously get out of here and then make her return; yet she wanted to stay here and experience the fallout from the verse and now, the voice.

_* * * * *_

"You think any dead people have ever talked back?" Mason argued, staring hard at Billy's square face. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"That's not what I said—"

"You think this haunting mumbo-jumbo is for reals? _Come on_."

Billy heard a whine under Mason's angry "come on", and figured that Daisy's little boy toy would be the first to crack if they were caught. He knotted up his fist and extended his pointer finger towards Mason's face like a weapon. "You watch yourself," he warned.

They were still sitting in the van, which they had parked at the back of Stan's Haunted House attraction—it opened onto an empty field about eight miles from Stan's shack of a house—(all of this had been Stan's property)—when they'd brought the unconscious Fed to the for now deserted location. It was only mid-afternoon; the haunted house wouldn't open until at least 6 o'clock, when the darkness was fresh. The only road to Stan's house from the Haunted House was dirt—a "feature" Stan appreciated to scare any potential customers on their "Chicken's Exit Out".

Billy had piloted the van back the way they'd come to the road which was not dirt; though the last half of a mile to the attraction was off-roading only. The drive from here back to civilization wasn't more than twenty minutes—civilization being the first and last gas station-mini-mart before crossing in between two worlds. He'd parked outside the mini-mart, but they had yet to get out and go in for supplies.

Mason had been the one who pointed out, after Quinn was out of the vehicle and out of earshot, that he'd found it unusual that the Fed had already been unconscious when he and Billy made it to their captive's room. The gag had hung loosely around the agent's neck, though he'd still been secured as tightly as before. Mason had witnessed Quinn shove something into his pocket before turning to hiss at Mason through his mask. "He's out."

"I thought he was going to put up a fight—"

"Admit it, you liked smacking him around," Billy had challenged. "What you can't do with Daisy 'cause you're so whipped."

"Fuck off," Mason had shouted.

Billy laughed. "Just screwing with you."

"You just don't like it that she's the brains of this operation."

"Maybe _you_ don't like it," Billy countered.

But now, Billy wondered why Quinn had been alone with the Fed, and for how long. And he found it twisted that Quinn had insisted he'd stay for first watch, "just in case". Billy's lip curled. He hoped Quinn wasn't getting "cozy" with the Fed—getting soft, though it seemed most ironic if he were the one who would cave first—especially since he was the one responsible for Stan's death. He didn't really believe in all this haunting shit, but he'd made the mistake of voicing one shit thing to Mason, and here they were, talking about dead not talking, and not getting out of the van and over thinking their mass of crime.

And thinking about Daisy. There was true to Mason's statement—but Daisy's "brains" were still scattered, and she needed all of them to help put her plans in focus. She was a type torn between running up to Dr. Brennan to threaten her with a butcher knife, or to simply embrace her as if they were long lost, now found siblings or friends. The idea of pranks had arisen from the holiday they were nearing, and each of them had expanded on sketches of what would be the most appropriate pranks for each of Dr. Brennan's team. There had only been one reaction that was disappointing—Dr. Brennan's to her first prank. She had been unfazed, and not even disgusted by the "blood"; it had been, in Daisy's opinion, a Gothic romantic gesture.

Billy had teased the hell out of Mason about that one, until Mason reminded him that Daisy did everything out of "love"; that's the way she treated everyone, and it had stopped Billy in his train of thought because he knew her "love" was the sickest kind.

_* * * * *_

It was strange, wasn't it, to almost feel nothing after all that had transpired? He felt his favorite parts were over, that the thrills of striking fear and confusion against the top team at the Jeffersonian were long done, even though their game was still in progress.

The game, up till . . . till it changed, had been a blast—and he knew that at some point he'd have to confess that he had no remorse for the culminating pranks; briefly, he contemplated a leniency for his remorse at the other crimes, considered a defense of "not guilty by mental disease or defect"—but then he had to laugh.

Wasn't he in his right mind doing everything?—even when he was swinging the ax?_—a perfect plan, about to be ruined if Stan talked. . . ._ Of course, had he allowed Stan to go, to talk to the police, the game might have ended without further crime. Stan would not be a mess of blood and brain matter on his very own floor and Quinn would not have regained a conscience when it came to the Fed his posse had taken prisoner—because they would have never had the chance. Quinn knew, with some sense of poetic irony, that Stan would have likely sided with him, tried to shield him from the worst, because he'd always done his damnedest to get Quinn to accept him as a stepfather, trying even harder after Quinn's mother split and left them both with each other.

_I didn't mean—_ Even alone, even though the thought was only in his head, Quinn slapped a hand across his own mouth, holding it there as he tried to sort through a cluster of angry, rueful emotion that had been with him, ignored, since Stan's—murder. Under his hand, he chuckled, the muffled sound gaining volume, until Quinn was certain, amid the silence of the basement rooms, even behind closed and locked doors, and over the thudding of his heart, that the Fed could hear him laugh.

He hadn't meant to stick around so long—volunteering himself as a guard for an hour in case any of their usual Halloween actors dropped by with dates—looking for some spooky, intimate privacy. They couldn't afford for the Fed to be found out, not before opening night tonight, when his presence would be half explained. He was unrecognizable they way he was; they'd dressed him in black clothing, removed his shoes, chained him to a door in the corner of the basement of Junior High Tonight's most desolate, darkened section—and they secured a plastic Ghost-Face mask to his face. His movement was severely limited; at best, he could rattle the chains as he smacked them against the door, helpless to free himself—and the gag under the mask was the best way to ensure his cries were more ghostlike as well—cries of a wild animal or of a man being killed—

Stan hadn't cried out. He'd only making a choking sound, as if his organs were being strangled inside him.

Quinn ran a hand across his face, his fingers shuddering over rubber as he realized he was still wearing his own mask like a second skin. It was a little unnerving to realize he hadn't noticed this before, the first time he'd touched his face and laughed.

The look on Stan's face just before his death would always be etched in Quinn's conscience—the fear of dying evident, of course, the shock that it was at Quinn's hand and the betrayal seated in his eyes—Quinn knew he was always going to be haunted by these crimes against nature.

He thought about the Fed's somber pleas to be released, the false promises he'd spouted of it not being too late—if help offered, if only— Still, Quinn reflected, there had not been a whine to the asking; the agent had spoken with control, as if he knew he still had a hand in making his own destiny, as if escape were inevitable rather than just wished.

_Bet he changed his tune,_ Quinn thought, flicking his chin in a direction of a dark hallway before sighing. He lifted his arm to his eyes, checking his watch and wondering when his relief would be here. Even on these shortened daylight hours of October, night was still a ways away.

_* * * * *_

In her need to do something, Angela turned to what made her feel most whole at work—where she found her center, in her artistic talents, and had begun a series of drawings of Booth's face, of the dead man's horror stricken one that had last "seen" Booth's before the agent vanished, of their own faces, and of deliberately crude representations of each of the pranks done against them. She worked as if entranced, shunning her other assignments to tell this story, their story, in what she figured was a futile attempt to help find Booth as well as the people responsible for so many awful things, among them, perhaps, Stan Carlson's killing.

_It won't be long, _a little voice like the beat of wings against her heart urged. For a few moments, Angela paused in its after traces, in the same echo it created around her mind like an inner halo. This was something she felt within her, reminiscent of Danni's spirit guiding her in the desert, and she threw herself further into her work. This was the best way she could help Temperance, help Booth.

And just like Danni, Angela could "feel" Booth still alive out there, his heartbeat strong, and fierce, and worthy. She traced the line of it with her pencils, the dark marks on the white paper solidifying her own "power". "I'm more than just an 'Angel, Fallen'," she whispered.

_* * * * *_

It was the hardest thing to do, staying here, pacing herself while she was so giddy inside she feared for a few moments she would give herself away. To steady herself, to remind herself just why she was doing all of this, Daisy took the long way down the hall so she could swoop by Dr. Brennan's office to get a glimpse.

The office was empty, Daisy noted with disappointment as she gawked. She so much wanted to go in, but as she stared, she could find no trace of the poem she had crafted. Her heart soared as she thought of the object of Dr. Brennan's unadmitted affection locked away in a secret place only a handful of people knew about. This made her feel closer to Dr. Brennan, because now Dr. Brennan was finding out what it meant to lose.


	14. Chapter 14: Aim Of Cupid's Deadly Game

Author's Note:I just noticed that the last chapters of this story got posted without its space breaks. Sorry about that. I've been having some trouble lately with space breaks when posting to FF (dot) net; I must have been super-tired not to notice they didn't make it in.

Thanks to anyone and everyone still hanging in out there. Thank you to those who have read and reviewed so far, to those who have favorited this story, and are still reading despite such long periods between updates. The support provides wonderful encouragement. Reviews, feedback, suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. I am working towards finishing it; I know, it is taking a very long time. Thanks again for your patience. Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to the short story "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson, or allusions/references to Samuel T. Coleridge's poem "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", or the musical composition by Léon Boëllmann - Suite Gothique - Toccata, or the _Halloween_ movies. Song at the beginning of the chapter is from lyrics to "Sticks and Stones" by The Pierces.

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**Chapter Fourteen:**** Wishing But To Miss The Aim Of Cupid's Deadly Game**

**##################################################################################################**

"_**I call thee other one**_

_**To love me more than any one**_

_**Seven times I pierce my heart**_

_**And now you'll feel the magic start**_

_**Bond thy heart and soul to me**_

_**Thy to the will**_

_**So let it be."**_

# # # # #

A coldness seeped from Quinn's marrow into his blood stream, inexplicably winding up in the deep pit of his stomach. It was a feeling he'd almost attribute to fear, but he knew it for what it was. He was . . . bored with this game now, and he wanted to let go of it and run out and give someone else a scare. But instead, he continued to stand outside and play guard-dog to their latest victim in a game gone much too far.

Stan wasn't supposed to die. Quinn frowned, hating that what he hated for what he'd done, at his hands, was still right there on the tip of his tongue. He needed to find himself a scapegoat like Daisy had found, like the others had found—they had all, if he were honest about it, placed blame on the top team of forensic scientists and anthropologists at the Jeffersonian, headed up by one super-genius Dr. Temperance Brennan. Daisy blamed her for many reasons: not giving enough attention to her was top of the list, though it was much more than that too, Quinn knew. It was the reason all of them had been targeted, attacked. They were a real family, a second set of non-blood friends— a family that was close knit, fully formed, with plenty of love to go around. And more. Who wouldn't be jealous of that?

Hell, he was plenty jealous. But the one he'd chosen mainly to scapegoat was Dr. Hodgins, who had once, very early into his internship, made Quinn look bad. Things had been different then; Hodgins was a loose canon having a hard time adjusting to Dr. Brennan's newest intern, a mini-her with male parts and too floppy hair.

Physiologically, Quinn knew feelings could not seep from marrow, that there were scientific reasons for the changes in his body temperature, his feelings—other than his guilt—for his dis-ease. But he couldn't help it; he was a walking contradiction, telling his story partially through metaphor. He guffawed. He had an urge suddenly to leave, to go topside and smoke a couple cigarettes, though he'd never smoked one before. He wanted . . . his hands to be busy with something; again, there was a physiological explanation for the "itch" in the back of his fingers, but he ignored it, and without thinking it through, he pushed the door and ducked into the room. Quinn moved slowly, knowing his way even in the dark. Shit, they'd done this haunted walk for so many years he could easily tell what path led where blindfolded, or in pitch blackness, like now.

Quinn stopped when he heard the agent's breathing, a mix of frantic panting and a whisper, soft and controlled. He only knew Booth was there by the heap of shadows, by the rustle of chains against the metal. He stood there for a few minutes, watching nothing in the darkness.

Did the punishment fit the crime? He _had_ enjoyed it; it had played out as perfectly as a dream or vision: Dr. Hodgins' "near death experience"; and he had been laughing the loudest. It was a shame Billy had refused him the wheel . . . or was it? A flash of Stan, before he was a dead, bloody pulp on the bare, dirty floor hit the back of Quinn's head like a slap. Well . . . it was worth it—Dr. Hodgins' prank, he meant. It was a thrill he could carry with him forever, to jail, to Mexico, to the grave, but he would have it forever. The look on Dr. Hodgins' face.

It was a small price to pay that he'd also carry Stan's death like an albatross—Quinn guffawed aloud, forgetting he wasn't alone in the room. He'd been thinking of Samuel T. Coleridge's mistake, how the bright and famous poet did not know the true size of the seabird when he'd penned his _Rime_, and how the metaphor was almost not as ridiculous when it related to Quinn—but now he froze in the dark.

The chains had ceased their clinking, and the heavy breathing calmed. Tentatively, the agent spoke, his voice extremely muffled. Quinn, who wasn't daring to breathe, could hear the volume increase, though recognized that the only progress was that the sound of muffles grew louder, grew more animalistic and unrecognizable as human noise. It was just what they had wanted.

There was a pang in his throat; why did he feel anything for giving the agent a moment of false hope—or even worse, another trickle of fear? It seemed an oddity for him to feel this way; before he could sort it through, he spun on his heel and made his way out.

# # # # #

Booth listened intensively to the sounds in the darkness, familiarizing himself to know most of what he heard was himself—breathing, the racing of his heart so fast it almost had a sound, the slamming of his fear as it hit his head from the inside, and the rustle of chains on metal whenever he tried to move.

The sound, outside of his own sounds, was so low he almost missed it. It was breath, mostly, but there was a small sneer of a laugh—Booth was not alone in the room as he had thought. He pulled himself still, clenching his stomach and holding his breath, waiting for more signs of life. It was hard to wait, though he knew he was powerless to do anything else.

Booth decided, after a short time passed without anymore sound, to try to communicate, even though it might be fruitless and only exhaust him further. Speaking was pretty impossible, but Booth knew he had to try. He was disappointed in himself; he became frustrated quickly, as his cries didn't sound like words even to his own ears. No one came to help him. No one was coming.

Panic welled under his Adam's apple. Booth tried to debate the merits of suppressing it as he felt the fear seep into him again, coating his insides with the toxins of doubt and anxiety.

This was no good. Booth's resolve was dissolving too fast. Or was it . . . his blood sugar was just low? He liked this, his mind switching gears. He let his eyes close; would it hurt to sleep, just for a little while?

_# # # # #_

What was it that had pushed him to this breaking point? Quinn pondered it as he climbed through the dark hallways, so expert he did not bump into one thing or get lost once. He stopped in the front room where tours would pay and gather, ready to be scared witless. He had thought it was a scream to hear Dr. Brennan's straggled cry upon receiving the note that (more than) implied Special Agent Booth had been kidnapped. In fact, he'd barely managed to stop himself from laughing aloud, or keeping his expression neutral or clueless. Why didn't it bother him then, the idea of kidnapping the agent?

Was it because, then, he had only thought of it as an idea—and even though he'd known Daisy was crazy enough to go for it, it had seemed like an awesome plan? It would be a challenge, dangerous and criminal, a whole leap and bound higher than what they done prior; then, he hadn't once said no.

Was it because, shortly before he could have said "No," he screwed his chances by committing murder? He was in, all in, and that was that.

But Quinn still believed—so strongly he could taste its sharp metal every time he swallowed—that they were all going down together—he and Daisy would lose their reputations, contacts, and scholarships along with their freedom; he could imagine Billy and Mason getting lesser charges—maybe not Billy, who had done the actual kidnap; at least Mason then might be out of prison long before his seventieth birthday. At that moment, he was struck with a demanding urge that he run, just run away now. Quinn leaned forward on the balls of his feet, ready to make a beeline for the door. He could imagine himself running across the field, the crisp, cold October air stinging his skin as he tried to formulate a plan.

_But what about him?_ a little voice gnawed. _What if he dies? _With a sigh, Quinn sank back, taking some deep breaths to force himself to relax. He wasn't going anywhere, he realized. Not until this was over.

_# # # # #_

That night, which Booth assumed was the time he was jolted awake—though it was impossible to tell—was much worse than the silence and his own fears to which he'd been confined.

Noise woke him, human voices talking, laughing, cackling, hooting, growling and screaming mixed with Halloween music, everything from generic spooky sounds of doors creaking, dogs barking, organ music reminiscent ofSuite Gothique's Toccata and more eerie noises, to theme music to the _Halloween_ franchise movies, as well as other scary October 31st-esque classic and modern films. Booth recognized too many, to his horror, as films he'd planned to screen Bones on—or would it be 'ween'? Or . . . begin? For a few moments, as he listened (and didn't yell), he wondered over why the two of them still couldn't get to the beginning. He let it go as he realized how agonized it made him, on top of his shocked disbelief of just where he was—and how he was practically hidden out in the open. Booth felt crazed; people were _so close_, must be. He writhed, screamed, shook and rattled his chains, and did everything he could on his limited leashes to get someone's attention.

Instead, he was treated to choruses of screams and shrieks, sometimes even crying, from what may have been children or teenagers. So many voices begging for a Chicken's Exit out, or proclaiming the coolness of this year's features. He wasn't certain if he was the one being referred to as "that really scary ghost" or not.

He didn't know when, but his voice gave out. He couldn't clear his throat, and became painfully aware of how dry his mouth was, and how much his jaw ached with his teeth forcibly clamped around the tight, thick cloth. Booth continued to writhe, hoping that, even if he couldn't get attention that somehow, with perseverance, he would manage to loosen one of the links on the chains. It was misguided to believe in such things, but he didn't have anything else, other than Brennan's huge brain and great track record when it came to solving difficult crimes, to count on.

_# # # # #_

_Last night, she'd had a dream, a terrible gut-twisting dream . . . they'd been too late. _

_A partial skeleton lay neatly on her table. The remains had been positively identified by dental records as Booth's. Angela had drawn a sketch of Booth's face anyway; she handed the drawing pad over, and Brennan turned the pages slowly. After Booth's sketch, which was less a drawing and more a photograph, glossy from urgent pressing of 9B graphite, there were a series of drawings of faces she didn't recognize—victims, she thought, who must have been dead a long time. _

_Would Booth—did Booth—suffer this same fate? To be murdered and lost somewhere in time, faceless bones, just faceless bones?_

"_He's dead, Angela!" Brennan cried out, falling into the arms of her best friend._

"_Sweetie, no. You did the best you could." Brennan felt Angela smoothing her hair, patting her shoulder. _

"_He's dead!"_

"_Sweetie, no."_

Brennan woke to Angela's dream words still echoing in her ears. Angela was contradicting, twice, Brennan's declaration of fact—Booth was dead.

"He's not dead," she whispered aloud. "He's not."

# # # # #

Brennan had awoken long before her alarm, showered, dressed and prepared herself what would inevitably be a long day ahead, in a daze. They hadn't made any progress yesterday, other than deciding that, starting this morning, herself and her team (ahem, Cam's team, of whom she was a member) would be conducting second interviews of all of the interns and staff at the Jeffersonian. Brennan didn't allow herself to hope much would come of handing over the tape with Booth's voice on it to Agent Perotta. But it was October 30, and this meant they had less than two days to figure out where Booth was, and get to him before . . . Tempe closed her eyes and sighed plaintively. _Before—?_ She didn't know what. She could assume, from the poem, that he would be left somewhere to die.

Brennan tried to swallow the thick feeling in her throat. She thought back to the last day she had seen Booth—she really hadn't thought a thing was off when she got the call to return to the Jeffersonian. She tried not place blame on herself, but a small part of her felt guilty for not being more thorough. She could have . . . made the intern who called identify themselves—but the person's name may have meant little to her; she was more familiar with her interns by their work, and less by their names or faces.

She chewed her lip. If only she were more like Booth when it came to people stuff. And why did she let her guard slip—

"Stop torturing yourself," Brennan told herself out loud, being firm, as if the voice in her head was a separate entity. As she got into her car, she allowed herself to hope, for a few seconds, that today would be much better than the others, that today her partner would be found.

There was something missing between them because he was missing. She rolled her eyes at this obvious logic, wondering if the metaphor was something borrowed from Booth—though she wasn't quite she how it got into her head. But she did miss . . . _more_ than her partner. _More_ than her friend. His easy smile, his combative nature, his unyielding opinions, his attractive grace—face? No, she blushed. It was . . . it was energy between them she missed, it was how comfortable she had come to feel when the two were together . . . discussing a case. Trying to make sense of senseless acts, at least enough to build evidence to use in court. Enough to put away killers. She still held to original opinion, that there was not a score sheet, that enough rights would erase all wrongs . . . but Brennan did like helping to bring about justice in situations that otherwise may have gone unsolved, where killers would have walked because there was a lack of forensic evidence, of a key which bound the perpetrators to a scene, indubitably.

They did good work. And they did even better work together. She . . . needed him to be here. She was unsettled that his whereabouts were still unknown. She was one of the most intelligent people in the entire country; she worked with the best of the best . . . and yet, they had so little of clues. Brennan wondered if her partner was scared, if he had . . . hope that she would get to him. Get him back. Like she and her outlaw father had managed to do before.

# # # # #

Though she never considered Booth fair game—come on, he was practically _married_ to her best friend, even though neither of them could barely admit how much they cared for the other (Angela could see it clearly)—Angela hadn't missed a single opportunity to flirt with or tease the sexy Special Agent. She thought about that now—and how her feelings for the Agent would be strictly platonic (though wouldn't she like a ticket on that ride, even just once?) as long as the potential love story replete with iconic sexual tension hung in the air over his and Brennan's heads. But it was these platonic feelings that hurt her now, looking through her sketches, looking over the one she had done of Booth, half turned away, half looking over his shoulder. It hurt because she wanted to help Tempe so badly, to perform the role of best friend _and_ super sleuth with only the tool of her art—and her always present hyper-sensitivity—to locate Booth.

She remembered well how frantic and nearly irrational Tempe's reactions had been when Booth had been taken by the presumed dead mobster, the one who killed people with ice picks. It was as if, Angela considered, Tempe had gotten close to someone only to see them slip away or abandon her in sense, the way her parents and brother had at such a young age. It was as if Tempe realized that getting close to people was a mistake, yet at the same time would stop at nothing to make a rescue—because she was unwilling to lose again. And she had been so frightened because Booth was definitely a man who could take care of himself, someone whom she pretended not to worry about. But when he was taken it made her realize how badly she needed to protect her connections. Angela had empathized a bit, but she herself had been worried over what might happen to Brennan if Booth did not come home.

Neither of them had brought themselves—or yet come—to the place to recite the magic four-letter word: L-O-V-E, let alone recite it as a part of three, but Angela guessed there was still time. The pair approached this word differently, separately and together—though they were not yet together. But Angela knew (even if they didn't yet know) that they were both more than just partners, and more than just friends.

She allowed a tiny smile, thinking of the two of them sniffing each other like wild dogs, each aware of their own Alpha statuses, their own wants and needs. She watched the two of them pretend, every day, that there was little on the table besides the job, which had, over time, brought them to become friends.

Now again, Booth had vanished with barely a trace. Angela was certain—unless Hodgins was somehow less than misguided about his crazy conspiracy theories—that Booth would have found a way to let Brennan know if he had been sent somewhere by the government to hide out. It might be against protocol and all of those other fancy codes and terminology, but Angela wanted to believe that Booth would have found some loophole to send her a message. Even if Brennan had been sworn to secrecy.

She sighed. It was all speculation; at this point, it was most relevant to believe that the pranksters—their pranksters—had targeted and taken Booth. She didn't know much about the FBI search, but she had overheard Agent Perotta talking about a small task force that had been formed to investigate.

# # # # #

It could be judgment day for all he knew—if he decided to play that hand after all. Quinn had taught himself how to limit sweating out of stress, how to deflect personal questions even in a room full of intelligent minds with incredible reasoning and critical thinking skills. He knew how to fake his way through a lie detector test, how to look smug when he wanted to burst out in laughter or spout a rainbow of curses.

Though, he reminded himself, as if there was a chance he could forget, this was all before he'd killed someone.

His inquisitor was a panel, and though the stand-in Fed was not present, Quinn guessed she was just behind the glass—though he was not in a usual interrogation room.

Angela Montenegro was the only one sitting off to the side, a sketch book propped up on her legs, her pencil poised over the sheets. The other three—Dr. Brennan, Dr. Hodgins, and Dr. Addy were lined up, seated together like a barrier to stare him down. Their faces were neutral, almost blank, though there was something accusatory in Dr. Hodgins' eyes.

As if he knew.

Quinn wondered how Daisy would fair. The thought almost made him lose his cool, break his relaxed expression, and laugh humorlessly. He allowed a bit of sweat to bead across his upper lip, to let himself seem anxious that _his job_ might be in some kind of jeopardy. But he'd been prepared for this; the interns in the Pit had been buzzing about it, though not many of the interview questions had been revealed—some kind of gag order, then.

Quinn felt he'd passed the interview with Perotta yesterday with flying colors, even after coming to the lab with dirt on his shoes, with his heart beating fast.

He'd ignored Billy and Mason when they'd come back, and he ignored any taunting they might might lay on the Fed while he was gone. He'd tried hard to ignore the inexplicable reasons he felt he needed to act as a sort of pillar or shield; this Fed was tough. He didn't need some misguided anti-hero standing up for him. Except, right now he did. It was all disturbing enough to make Quinn's stomach twist up in knots. He wished he could summon the anger he'd felt when he'd found the agent in the kitchen, trying to call for help.

He had been simultaneously appalled and admiring of the strength and balls it took for the bound Fed to work his way from the couch, get to the phone and dial, even though there wasn't a way he'd be understood.

Quinn knew he passed the first round of questions because he honestly had nothing against Dr. Brennan, and she was the real focal point. She had never done a thing that had made him feel slighted, though he could admit (though he hadn't) that her personality was lacking serious warmth. She chose reason over compassion (though, since she and her primary team had begun full-time work with the FBI, Quinn recognized the signs of combat, and not just because the Fed often leaned towards compassion more than she did.) It was a war, also, barely undetectable, going on on beneath her skin—making her question not her rationale but her choice of wanting to know the living as well as she knew the dead.

Quinn wondered how far he should go. He still wondered where his loyalties were supposed to lie.

Dr. Saroyan was not in the room. Maybe she was hanging out with the female Fed. Quinn didn't really worry about it. There was one thing that still brought him undeniable pleasure—he was in the same room, face to face with all of the people he had helped to scare, Hodgins included. It was delicious to think about; he had to press his lips together into a hard line to suppress his smile. Even though he had little to nothing against them; Hodgins was the only exception.

His smile, suppressed, soured. He sighed. _Daisy_. Daisy was the reason that he'd gotten involved; and because he liked to scare people. She knew his weakness—she was good at knowing people's weaknesses, at using them to make people do things for her. Daisy liked to be in control; and where Quinn savored the control he had now—_they_ were _his_ captive audience, unknowingly—Daisy really had all of _her_ group by the balls. It had only been made worse by the murder, which she'd partially facilitated; she was fantastic at persuasion.

"_Make sure he doesn't tell anyone," she'd told him sweetly. _

"_What if he refuses?" _

"_You know what to do." _

_It hadn't bothered her one bit that she knew Stan, that they all did, and that Stan was Quinn's stepfather, though not technically because Stan had not adopted him. But still. _

"_Don't let him ruin this for me." Her tone had shifted to gravelly. Her bottom lip had trembled. "He will not ruin this for me!"_

Granted, she had not put the ax in his hand and told him to swing as hard as he could.

"Did you know, Mr. Masters, that dead people don't lie?" Brennan opened, staring him down. Quinn could hear the emotions already at war in her voice. "That bones tell a story?"

Quinn let himself smile easily.

"That a skeleton does not have to be whole in order to tell the experienced and the intelligent what they need to know?" Dr. Addy cut in dryly.

Brennan nodded. "That's correct. All that experienced person need to know is how to read them."

Quinn held his smile, hoping it didn't come off as strained. Had they really asked all of the interns the same questions? A light switched on in his head; he was getting questioned about the missing partial skeleton. What was next? Would it be discovered he had also called Dr. Brennan to get her to return? The events had happened two days apart—he'd taken the skull out and had not put it back. He'd packaged it up in a bag, and Daisy had come and picked it up when he was out; this was her show, after all. The worst that he could be accused of, for the thing with the skull, was that he was inefficient in his procedure; it wouldn't be so bad to be dismissed for this, Quinn rationalized.

He let the smile fall from his face slowly. "I apologize in advance"—_tricky_—"but I don't know what I'm doing in here." He addressed Dr. Brennan, but made certain to give all of them significant glances. He noticed, for the first time, that Angela had begun to sketch something, but the paper was turned away from the table he where he was seated.

He liked that none of them were cops and wouldn't lie to him to gain information, to make him soft, saying things like, "You're not in any trouble." That was not a fact; even if they didn't know exactly who was responsible, they did know that someone was not innocent. He could be that guilty party.

Was this really taking precedence over their daily duties of crime solving and bone identifying? Quinn remained neutral of face about this as he considered its weight. He was silently studying them as he let himself sit between nervous and relaxed, trying to anticipate their next move. He heard Angela's pencil moving across the paper.

He was ready to lie if the truth didn't suffice; it wouldn't be fair to make it too easy. They were scientists; they thrived on solving puzzles, being challenged, unwavering even while at risk. (If not their lives then their jobs, or even their ethos, logos or pathos.) It was up to them how this went. Maybe he would . . . let slip something he "shouldn't"; whether that be a neon arrow or a reverse red herring would be up to them. Quinn knew they wanted to believe they were running this show. They might not, he thought, need any bones from him after all.

# # # # #

Prior to each intern's required presence in the mock interrogation room, the files on each had been looked over, checked and discussed for possible motives or connections, between the five of them. Cam was still screening dozens more, and had asked Agent Perotta if there had been any interns she'd deemed as "persons of interest" during her interviews.

Cam had banned Jack, early on, from using the phrase "government conspiracy" as a possible explanation for interns' motives. He'd clamped his mouth shut too, after the triple female threat had sent him an extra warning. No matter if _he_ thought it could be a legitimate reason, he figured _they_ thought it wouldn't help them find Booth before . . . whatever bad thing the note had cryptically stated was going to happen to him.

Zach had tried to argue once in Jack's defense about considering the logic of all variables so as to best explore process of elimination. But Cam overruled it and deemed it "eliminated".

"Who's up next?" Angela had asked, trying not to sound exhausted. By this time, they'd been through nearly 30 highly detailed, highly specific files. Novella length files, each were. Each came with a photograph taken at the time when the intern was accepted into the program and began their first day of work. Still, she had found it most helpful, among the smattering of her own questions, to sketch each intern as they spoke. Sort of a . . . lie detector test of Angelator paper style. Like the old days when she got by drawing caricatures in the park. Except then, she hadn't really been looking for that kind of truth. Or that kind of lie.

But at least one of these people was not who they thought he or she was. That was a truly terrifying thought to her. She was uncomfortable with thoughts of accidentally rubbing elbows with someone who thought it was secretly funny to pour motor oil on the sidewalk, or almost run her boyfriend down. As well as do everything else that had been done. It made her feel physically ill. Her best friend was hurting, blaming herself for some crazy person or persons' mischief and crime. And all this time, someone was laughing at them. Someone they knew. Or if not knew then at least worked with in the same institution. Saw in passing. It gave her the creeps. She'd rather not think about the possibility of working near—or even with—a sociopath.

She only drew their portraits if something they said caught her attention. Now, she found herself not looking at the sketchbook as much, but listening as the intern Quinn Masters spoke, yet she could feel the pencil moving across the page.

It wasn't until he had left the room that she looked down, and saw it. Instead of his face, with its deep set russet colored eyes, thin pale lips and his plain white complexion, she had sketched a highly detailed partial skull. She flinched, and almost missed the tiny jack-o'-lantern that found its way into the eye socket. _Decayed,_ Angela imagined, her stomach turning when she thought of rotting flesh. Her skin was not as thick as others', at least not when it came to death, and what remained.

The funny thing was, he'd seemed pretty ordinary to her. His personality was controlled, almost flat, much like his hair, which sat sandy-blond at medium length on top of his skull—er, head. He resembled what she thought of as typical scientist or scientist-to-be behavior—an intelligent studious air, slightly drawn in to himself, cold emotionally but not sterilely cold (scratch that, Mr. Fisher had been _deathly_ cold). He was eager when his concentration was mentioned—that was the duration of passion.

Hodgins had been the one who asked him about Halloween. What did he think of it, did he do anything special, was there a tradition he was fond of?

He'd nodded. "I like to get scared on Halloween. It's the one day out of the year when you can get "safe-scared", and no one thinks the worst of you for cringing at monsters jumping out of holes, or ghosts shrieking from ceilings. When, for all the uninitiated,"—here, he'd paused, and did a quick sweep of hand behind him, as if to indicate that those outside this room fit this profile—"everything that we see and do daily isn't scary or sickening. Anyone can take a skull in his hands and not be repulsed. Because the skull isn't real, it's made of crepe paper, or candy. Death on Halloween is just a game, and then by morning, it's all over."

It was conversational, and sounded honest. Still, wasn't it just a bit hard to take? Angela had glanced at her friends for their reactions. Zach and Tempe appeared to have none, but she could see a scarlet blush hitting Jack at the temples, his jaw tightening though he refrained from comment.

# # # # #

He congratulated himself for not even breaking a sweat when they questioned him about the body—Stan. He figured it was because of the spider; the latent phobia of Dr. Addy that he'd overheard him mention once, at a sink, when he thought he was all alone.

Quinn cursed himself later for spinning it to Daisy during a night the four of them had hung out, drinking (was she drinking as much?) and making the initial plans. Then, it was not more than shit talk; just a way to pass the time as their buzzes took hold and propelled them to tipsy, to falling down.

When he thought about what he had just done, he almost allowed himself to laugh. He deemed them, after all, not so in the loop as he had hoped—or maybe their jaws had just been locked too tight. It was getting late, after all; they had less than two days to discover the agent's location. They couldn't lose, or rather, he did not want to win.

Dr. Brennan had had a series of questions for him, had looked at him quizzically as if he could know anything about her missing friend. He wondered what she'd do when she found out the agent had been hurt, that he'd been chained up like an animal, deprived of food and water. As she was asking him questions about the missing partial skull, he'd been thinking of the agent without meaning to. He remembered the punches he'd delivered to the agent's side and arm, one each, after he'd been caught trying to escape. Quinn had hit with his gloved fist dully, not feeling anything himself. He'd actually felt like a character in "The Lottery", forced by ritual to throw a couple pebbles even though his heart wasn't in it.

It wasn't, was it? This had really stopped being enjoyable for him after the prank on Dr. Hodgins. Why hadn't they just been able to stop after that?

He already knew the answer.

# # # # #

She was the first to visit him after his first exhausting night as bait, as a monster who did not know he was one. The corner of the basement room where he'd been stashed was snow quiet. She liked to imagine the children in their fanciful costumes with their treat bags, shuffling down here in a tour, winter coats covering some of their shoulders. _Oh, how he would scare them without even knowing!_ Children his son's own age! In the semi-dark, Daisy smiled in delight. Of course, kids that age wouldn't venture into a place like this.

Special Agent Seeley Booth had survived his first night down here, she gathered. She had brought a miniature lantern to get a good look at him; luckily, she had remembered to wear her own mask, gloves, and shapeless black clothing just in case he happened to try to search her person for answers. She confident in not being found out.

She moved a couple of cement blocks towards the door where he was chained so she could be at eye level with him. The door was slanted away from her, so she stacked the blocks three high, and climbed on top.

Daisy dangled the hoop of the lantern handle over her left arm and reached out to touch the mask. He didn't react, so she tugged on it slowly, easing it away from his face. It bobbed up to his head. She could see his eyes were closed; they hadn't bothered to blindfold him because it was so dark down here. She wondered if his ribs were bruised, if his arms or legs were; she knew that he'd been shaking and rattling like a mad man, because she'd been here as part of a "tour", just to keep an eye on him. She done a fabulous job pretending he was just the scariest ghost ever! Her shrieks had even made two other girls, both of high school age, sob and cry.

"Stop it!" one of them had yelled in Agent Booth's direction. "_Stop_ it! _God!_ You're giving me nightmares!"

It had only made him try harder. He wanted attention. Give him attention. Dr. Brennan, where were you at this crucial moment?

Daisy smirked. She retrieved the lantern from her arm, holding it close to Booth's face. His eyes were still closed but she could hear his muffled breathing.

She deduced he was faking, and told him so. "Faker!" Her own voice was high, but muffled due to the rubber mask. Booth still didn't open his eyes. She debated removing the gag; she had brought water—he couldn't yet die. She guessed he'd passed out sometime during one of the many tours; he'd been yelling his head off and exerting more physical energy than his limited bounds would allow for.

She leaned forward, fumbling with the knot. It was harder because of the gloves. When he felt the pressure moving on his face, Booth ratcheted his eyes open, one inaudible click at a time. She wondered if he was registering her at all; he looked like he wasn't really here.

"I brought you water, Agent Booth!" Daisy cheered, smiling again under the mask. The yellow eyes leered at him as she peered through the slits. The lantern's light did help when it came to seeing him, but if there was something wrong with him it might not be clear on the surface.

She couldn't get the knot to come loose. He seemed to be watching her, in agony. He had no fight left in him. Finally, she huffed, and pulled her arm back to help her one set of phalanges remove the glove from the other. She considered it, then pulled off the other too; this was a two hand job, the damn knots were so tight. She was disgusted at how soggy the cloth was, even though in her line of work, she wasn't easily repulsed. _Finally, finally!_

Daisy pulled the rag away and let it drop to the ground. She had two more in her pocket, nestled between some sweet square of chocolate food. She wasn't about to share that.

She was amazed when he tried to talk—or was it just a big breath that sounded like whispered words slurred? _. _She uncapped the bottle, and pressed the open mouth to his lips. They looked cracked, she noticed. He hacked on the first mouthful, and seemed to pass out for a moment which just made her angry. "_Wake_ up! I haven't got all day!"

Daisy was satisfied when Booth resumed wheezing, seeming to wait for more water to choke on. She poured more slowly, and watched his tongue move around, greedy for more. She gave him all she had, while getting into a routine of chatting, though she was less than aware of what she was saying to him. At first she chanted in a spooky voice, "Two more nights!" Then she began to say, "They are losing daylight. At this moment, out there, it's getting darker. They're losing hope. They're losing you. Most of all, _she_ is. She's losing you." Her tone turned patronizing. "Once you're gone, she's going to need someone qualified to help her pick up the pieces! _Hello_, that's me!" Her cell phone went off. "Oh! Oh!"

The agent was silent, drinking the water.

"Hello?"

"_Where are you?"_

"I'm—you know." Daisy cupped the mouthpiece.

"_Come back. They're doing interviews."_

"Who is?" Daisy was confused now; she had already been interviewed by Agent Perotta yesterday.

"_Brennan, all of them. Without that Fed."_

Daisy felt a tingle of anticipation in her throat. She glanced furtively at Booth.

The light around wasn't so good, but there was still light, and he could work his jaw. Instead of the cloth immobilizing his teeth, cool water had entered in. His tongue was so sore, and he'd slurped up all given. Still, Booth blacked out for some moments. When he came to, he realized an important conclusion: He had never seen a T-Rex talk on a cell phone before.


	15. Chapter 15: They're Out To Get You

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own lyrics to "Put A Spell On You" by The Hex Girls, or "Bump in the Night" by Allstars.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for your reviews and support! Again, I know this story is taking such a long time to write/update, but wanted to say I'm so appreciative to have you wonderful readers and reviewers still sticking it out! Thank you thank you thank you thank you! I think I _*finally*_ have figured out the rest, and estimate 2-3 more chapters after this one, plus a semi-short epilogue, so please do hang in there! :) I really want to finish this story as soon as possible.

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Happy Halloween!

-{;)} Enjoy!

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**Chapter Fifteen: They're Out To Get You, To Capture You And Make You Spellbound**

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"_I'm gonna cast a spell on you_

_You're gonna do what I want you to_

_Mix it up, here, in my little bowl_

_Say a few words and you'll lose control!"_

—The Hex Girls "Put A Spell On You"

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Quinn closed the phone. He felt he'd owed her a "head's up", even though it was little more than for her to bare her own neck before placing it on the chopping block.

Unless . . . she would just be that good. Better, even, than he could be. But then again . . . she would not be ruthless enough to slip up on purpose; this was her game, her rules, and she was going to see this through.

But she did not know about corrosion, about his sneak attack from within the ranks. She assumed her minions were all still aboard—heave ho!—and all was right with the world.

He'd better get to work.

# # # # #

After Mr. Masters left, the four of them took a few minutes to discuss their impressions, coupled with what they'd learned from his file. They'd done this will all of them so far, who they had screened—of who had been at the lab already; there were a handful screened who were not scheduled for today, or who would be in later this afternoon.

"Did anyone else get a 'creepy vibe' off of him, or was it just me?" Hodgins asked, taking the time to give each of them a meaningful look.

"You hardly have the proclivity to be objective," Zach countered, not unkindly.

Hodgins blew out a breath. "And you do? You're practically convinced Nigel-Murray's involved. Perotta too. She made notes. I bet that guy couldn't hurt a fly."

Zach had felt the probability was high on several, including Nigel-Murray, who seemed to exhibit suspicious behavior. Though, he had to conclude that the intern seemed less suspicious in their surprise interview.

"Weren't you listening?" Zach asked. "I said I'm less certain of his involvement—"

Brennan nodded. "I concur."

"Less than certain?" Hodgins repeated, putting a hand up to acknowledge Dr. Brennan. "What are your conclusions on Mr. Fischer and his positively depressing life outlook?"

Zach pursed his lips, recalling the pasty, pierced intern with the downcast eyes. "Positively depressing sounds like an oxymoron," he began, hastened to explain that he understood the concept of oxymorons but there were little place for them in his work. "Statistically speaking, he could have a higher probability to do harm, but I get the impression that he was more likely to _think_ harm . . . upon himself, that is, then to actually _act_ on anything."

Again, Dr. Brennan had to concur. The three of them dissolved into a conversation that buzzed as all of them tried to speak at once. Angela took a deep breath, gazing back at her sketch book to get some handhold before she spoke. She let them go on for another minute and a half.

"Did you hear what he said about his family?" Angela asked, her had indicating the empty chair before realizing she had to say his name or the trio would think she was talking about Nigel-Murray or Fischer. She had actually been the one to ask; it had been on the tip of her tongue for a while during some of their questions; when she'd asked, he'd swiveled his head and looked straight at her—as she sat on the diagonal. He had relaxed his eyes, heaving away a torrent of emotion, somehow holding it at bay as he spoke about his mother being gone. He hadn't elaborated on what state of "gone" was, or said a single word about his father, leaving them to assume, or not to assume, his mother had been a single parent. He made it seem—to himself, and perhaps to the untrained eye or ear—that family meant little; he was used to the alternative at an relatively early age. What he said left her with more nagging feelings than before she'd asked the questions.

"Ang, you have something?" Jack raised an eyebrow, noticing his girlfriend still staring intently at her sketchpad. At first, Angela was reluctant to share. Finally, she said, "I don't know what this means," and flashed them the sketch.

Even so, she felt foolish; her best friend's expression was unreadable; Jack's, holding the slightest twinkle. But was that just because they were involved? She caught herself before she could repeat her vague statement. Surprisingly, Zach was the one who responded first. "A skull is the representation of what is left," he commented. "After death." He stared at her sketch. "But why is it only partial?"

Angela shook her head, unable to make a concrete answer. Jack was the only one who could really understand her and understand that her thought process was different from empirical ones of forensic scientists. They loved order, facts, had no room for chaos, for anything without a proper scientific classification. She felt . . . this was a big difference. She felt that Quinn Masters was hiding something about his family, but she was no profiler so she couldn't state exactly what. If his parents had been dead, why didn't he just say so?

"What do we know about him, from the file?" Hodgins asked, tapping the table. Angela was relieved; Hodgins had picked up on the urgency of her question, and was seemingly intrigued by the drawing she had produced. They were going to look at the file again.

Brennan opened it. As with the others, it was extensive. She scanned it, looking for mention of kin. Thing was, this was an optional factor, and was not listed. "Would Agent Perotta do a background check for us if we found him to be a person of interest?"

"Do we have time for that?" Angela asked gently. "Our time is—"

"—Running out," Brennan finished, with a sigh. Against her usual discretion, she asked to examine Angela's sketch. She wondered, without basis, if Mr. Masters had a connection to the partial skulls housed in the Jeffersonian. She'd tried to reason why . . . did he have information about the teenage girl who had disappeared? Where the rest of the girl's skeleton could be buried? Had he known her? No . . . this might not be the right angle for this small window.

_The clue is in the bones. _

"I have to go to the lab," Brennan said abruptly, standing. Zachalso got out of his seat, but Brennan waved him back absently. "Just give me a few minutes. I want to look at the body."

"The body?" Angela asked.

Brennan left the conference room, unable to express what avenue had brought the thought to her; if she said "feeling" or "intuition", her friends would look at her sideways; Zach would ask if she was ill. Maybe . . . in part, she was. Booth had been gone too long and the mystery of when-where-how-who-why was getting to her.

What did they know? Person, or persons, were specifically targeting her by "pranking" Cam, herself, Angela, Hodgins, Zach, and Booth. The pranks had escalated from harmless (Cam) to deadly (Hodgins). Each "prank" was accompanied by a cryptic note in ransom-style letters on a plain white piece of paper—including the last: _"Rescue him?"_— no fingerprints, up until Booth's disappearance when a section of cryptic, script-written verse was placed on the desk in her office while she was not there.

They knew it must be an inside "job", that it was of the highest percentile that they knew their attackers, possibly rubbed elbows with them/him/her at one time or another.

They knew that they had been "given" a limited time frame to find Booth, that the "clues" to do so were supposedly in the verse, as was the threat of what would happen if he was not found by midnight on Halloween: he would be left to die somewhere. Possibly buried alive. Brennan swallowed her saliva. She made herself keep concentrating.

They knew that his abductors had recorded his voice and played it over the sound systems of a few different local haunted houses. Why? The police had been dispatched to investigate, but so far, nothing had come of it. Booth had been calling for help, sounding more injured that scared, which had made Brennan's stomach do flips.

They knew that Brennan had been lured back to the Jeffersonian with a tease about new evidence pertaining to the partial skull of the teenage runaway that had been a recent project of Brennan's, because someone had called knew that this same skull had ended up in Stan Carlson's bed resting near a plastic skeletal body as if attached. They knew the pranksters had wanted Booth to go to Carlson's alone so they could attack him and continue on with their sinister plans. But what was the reason for all this?

Tempe swallowed again. She felt unnerved; a pulsing along her jaw that snaked around the base of her neck. Stress, she estimated, anxiety. Who wanted to frighten her so badly it cut her to the core? Never seeing Booth again. Booth dead, because . . . Brennan closed her eyes, feeling a shift in her equilibrium. She put a hand out to a column in the hallway to steady herself.

# # # # #

She stayed like that for a good chunk of seconds before opening her eyes to see Vincent, one of the interns recently interviewed, coming towards her.

Mr. Nigel-Murray stopped her in the hallway, obviously still nervous—and seeking her praise—from the interrogation, to impart facts about missing persons. "Did you know," he began, his smile tight but still friendly, "that an astounding 2,300 Americans are reported missing every day, including both adults and children?"

Brennan frowned, dismissing him quickly. "That will be all." He was not still cleared as a suspect, and Brennan couldn't help but, for a moment, consider his smiling face disconcerting. Nigel-Murray didn't know what to do, because it wasn't clear whether she knew the statistic or not. "Why are you telling me this?" Brennan demanded when he wouldn't leave, while he bounced on his toes. The chances of finding missing persons alive severally decreased after 48 hours—of even finding anything, let alone a corpse. She experienced a sensation akin to having her body temperature drop momentarily, a sign that she would attribute to pre-hypothermia, but she understood that her response was more a quick stimulus to what she perceived as a threat: Nigel-Murray could still be a threat. He could know where Booth was. But what could he possibly gain by her demise?

Flustered, Nigel-Murray backed away. "I am sorry," he said. "I . . . I wanted to be helpful." He frowned at his logic. "But I see how I am not . . . being . . . helpful." His eyes downcast, he ambled away.

Brennan was torn between asking him to stay so she could attempt to grill him—though Booth was so much better at grilling; this was a term she had picked up from Booth. In this case, she almost preferred the literal meaning—and quickly determined her blunt anger to to be somatic-affective; it came from a place of just not knowing.

She hated not knowing. She felt, as a genius, she should be able to solve everything from basic to complex problems. But this . . . was taking much too long. And Booth . . . she closed her eyes. She didn't want to imagine what condition he might be in, or what conditions he might be held under. Brennan, with her high level intelligence, tried to be comforted by this fact that Booth's chances for survival would be statistically higher because of the team which she headed up working diligently to find him. She also considered that her partner had been taken to serve as a prize at "end game"—terminology she'd borrowed from Hodgins, which she'd likened to a dénouement of sorts. She had already imagined the perfect climax—finding Booth, finding him alive, a moment in which she guessed she would be secreting copious amounts of adrenaline, in which she might just throw her arms around him.

But it bothered her still; why did the perpetrators just not take her? If she was the main the target, why did they find it more satisfying to toy with her this way? To attack her friends? She understood little about regular people, even less about criminals, but in this scenario, she considered if torture was what the pranksters were after, then they had done their worst. They'd hurt everyone physically, except for herself and Cam, and though it was probable conjecture, Brennan let herself think through that herself and Cam had been excluded from physical torment because it was _more painful_ for the both of them to watch _their people_ be injured. To get to the scene too late to locate Booth. Cam and Booth had been an item once, and now, Booth belonged to Brennan as her partner. Their relationship was strictly professional, Brennan thought. Still, she missed Booth as she would any limb she had lost. He . . . felt like a part of her.

# # # # #

After Brennan left, Cam stopped in to check their progress. She brought them a stack of new files, telling them that Agent Perotta had flagged the top five files as "persons of interest". As she set the stack down, she noticed Dr. Brennan's absence.

"She went back to the lab," Zach said. "She needed to look at the body."

"She did seem compelled," Angela added. They filled Cam in on what they had been talking about, who.

"Quinn Masters?" Cam asked, closing her eyes for a minute as she tried to remember what he looked like. She took the file from Hodgins, who in turn took and opened the first file on the stack.

_Daisy Wick,_ Hodgins scanned. He read the short note Perotta had written, the details why this intern might be a suspect.

"Oh, I remember now," Cam said, snapping her fingers. "Brilliant mind, but I had to reject one of his letters of recommendations because he had used a family member as a reference. He wrote a counter letter, asking why it wasn't valid because he was not related to this family member by blood." She shrugged. "That's probably not helpful, is it?"

# # # # #

Maybe it as a trick, another cruel prank of sorts, forged from desperation. Brennan stared at the body—still covered in flesh—of Stan Carlson (positively identified; next of kin was still being sought out), trying to understand why she had come here. She was no good with flesh; Cam's position was closer to a medical examiner—being a forensic pathologist—than herself. But Brennan made herself stare at the head injury—they'd been able to determine the back of Carlson's head was split open by an ax. Zach had matched the weapon's blade to that of an ax used by a firefighter, but this left them nowhere. A search of Carlson's house hadn't yielded anything useful—except spiders, and that Carlson had likely been a slob living out of boxes or a man with belongings packed up, just about to get out of dodge.

But why would he be running? Had he been one of the pranksters? Brennan had not known him, no one had. The spider prank had been mostly harmless, Brennan reasoned, because the spider, in spite of its size, was not poisonous. Of course, her assistant had been frightened, startled enough to pass out cold on the floor, but if there had been charges brought against Carlson for it, they were likely to be minor. Criminal mischief, a misdemeanor. Certainly, the man may not have been in his right mind, may not have considered, with a very good lawyer, that he might not serve jail time at all.

Temperance leaned forward, catching a glimpse from the corner of her eye of Carlson's frozen face, his terror still evident in death. She had been trying not to look, because a few small thoughts in the back of her mind teased that this might just be Booth's fate.

What did . . . what did Mr. Masters have to do with this? He was a person of interest, a suspicious character, almost deliberately unsettling. Why . . . why was that? Why him? Before today, he had not been one to stick out in any way to her. She vaguely recalled his face, but if she were being blunt, he looked like so many of the pale, ordinary white males common of the forensic sciences. There wasn't, in her opinion, anything remarkable about him, nothing which stood out to her, but he did have to be something to get into the very exclusive forensic internship program at the Jeffersonian. Tempe pondered it further, trying to make sense, again, of what she did know.

Why hadn't she thought to ask Mr. Nigel-Murray anything when they were in the hallway together? She clenched her jaw. It just hadn't occurred to her that he might know something, also, she reasoned, she had not been thinking as clearly and still considered him suspect. But she thought again about Zach's points; Nigel-Murray was friendlier with the other interns; he seemed like a kind, polite, if not quirky, young man. She herself was not good with friendly, or personableness; she liked to be direct, and she wished others were the same.

She thought over what Masters had said about Halloween, how he liked to get 'safe scared'_. ". . . No one thinks the worst of you for cringing at monsters jumping out of holes, or ghosts shrieking from ceilings. When, for all the uninitiated, everything that we see and do daily isn't scary or sickening. Anyone can take a skull in his hands and not be repulsed. . . . Death on Halloween is just a game, and then by morning, it's all over."_

"_On Halloween, death is a game. Then, by morning, it's all over."_ Was there an allusion here in his words? Brennan considered, or was it just a coincidence? This Halloween, there was a "game" they were being forced to play and if they failed, by the next morning, it might all be over. Over . . . Brennan shook her head. She couldn't dwell of the possibility of failure.

On an impulse, Brennan called the Pit and asked Mr. Nigel-Murray to come up to her lab. She waited, remembering her lead-in statements about bones always telling a story, no matter how few there were, that the dead could not lie. It was a veiled question about Masters knowing anything about the missing partial skull, about the phone call . . . and he had actually said something about holding a skull in his hands. Was it mere coincidence, or were there facts behind his mask?

"Dr. Brennan, you wanted to see me?" Vincent asked when he arrived, still nervous, but expectant.

"Yes," Dr. Brennan said, being pulled from her deep thoughts. "Do you know where one might find 'monsters jumping out of holes or corners', or 'ghosts screaming from ceilings'?"

Vincent looked perplexed for a moment, trying to think fast. "Did you know," he began, looking her in the eye, "that Karaoke means 'empty orchestra' in Japanese?" Dr. Brennan looked less then amused, but then Vincent snapped his fingers. "Perhaps . . . a scary film? Or a carnival ride? Or a haunted house? Those are all certainly popular this time of year."

"Haunted house?" Brennan repeated slowly, looking to the intern for clarification. The two words pulsed in her, the reminder of Booth's voice trapped somewhere inside some of those places.

"Have you never been?"

Tempe shook her head slowly, trying to regain a sense of inward composure.

Vincent animatedly explained to her what went on. Depending on the attraction, he said, and the actors, and if there was a budget of any kind, there might be a guided tour which took small groups from room to room while discoursing about ghosts or spirits who may have died in whatever location they were in at the time. He explained, when she looked skeptical, that most of these tales were for the purpose of entertainment and were not meant to be taken as fact. "There are often actors in costumes, dressed as monsters, or ghosts, or horror movie villains," he went on, "who may jump out at you or your group as you walk by, hoping to scare you. These people pay to be scared, because it is, for some people, a thrill to be scared."

This echoed something else Masters had said. Brennan interrupted, having to know if Vincent was of them. Vincent shrugged. "No more for me than going to see a scary film in the theater," he admitted. "Just a fun way to spend a free evening . . . especially if I can take my girlfriend." He smiled nervously, trying to decide if he should add more.

"It's a form of dating?" Brennan asked, raising an eyebrow. "Going somewhere to be scared?"

Vincent's brow furrowed. "Not . . . not entirely. But I . . . like to feel heroic if my girlfriend clings to me after a scary sound has frightened her." He looked abashed. "Though, it is too often that I am clinging to her." He explained that he had been in quite elaborate attractions with lavish budgets and also paltry ones where most of the "haunted-ness" was store bought, like the motion activated ghosts that would "shriek" or "wail" as if "alive" when triggered.

"One of the best ones I have ever gone in," he said with a smile, "is one about thirty minutes outside of the city, set back from the road, seemingly in the middle of a field in the middle of nowhere. It's called 'Junior High Tonight'—the name was taken from a popular tune. Do not let the name fool you; it is a scary good tour!"

Brennan was about to dismiss him, feeling she had her answer, when Vincent said, "Quinn Masters, he is an intern here, recommended it to me. Apparently, his stepfather runs and owns it . . . it's set back a solid eight miles on his property, I think that's what he told me. Quinn, his stepfather, and a group of friends help out with it every year."

The hairs on the back of Brennan's neck stood up. Quinn Masters and his stepfather helped to run a haunted house.

# # # # #

Mason stopped her in the waiting area above the basement steps, gripping her arm hard just as she was reaching for her mask. "Hey, baby," Daisy said, ignoring his rude behavior.

He was not wearing any disguise, and had a sneer across his mouth, which smelled and tasted of beer, when he kissed her. Slid his hand roughly down her back, but didn't pull her close.

"Great _opening_ night, October 29," Daisy grinned, ignoring him still. She wrenched her arm free, and used both hands to tighten her ponytail. "Wasn't it just to die for?" She raised an eyebrow to match her delighted tone, and then bent to retrieve her mask from the floor and tucked it into her bag. "What are you doing here?"

Mason snapped his head quickly to the basement stairs, looking suspiciously at the darkness which flooded behind the door, still open. "Covering for Billy," Mason finally spoke. He sounded angry, ashamed, like he couldn't help himself.

Daisy eyed him, her grin getting wider. "Don't tell me you're jealous," she teased.

"Jealous?"

"Jealous," she repeated.

"Jealous of what?" Mason's tone spiked.

"_You're_ my baby," Daisy told him, knocking his shoulder lightly with her palm. "I am not interested in Agent Booth, if that's what you're thinking."

Mason froze, the look on his face unclear as if he had been thinking of this or not. She pushed past him, heading for the main door. "Who—who _are_ you interested in, then?" he called after her.

"You, silly," Daisy chirped without turning back. She left, wondering just what he would do with this information. He was no fighter, was hardly even a lover, but he was warm and eager to please her. His tough act didn't fool her for a second.

Her heart fluttered with the anticipation of going before an impromptu panel of her peers—superiors—Dr. Brennan—and putting on her best show yet. She had the delicious information that Dr. Brennan so craved, that her very Special Agent Booth was indeed still alive, screaming, kicking, sweating. That he was miserable being kept like an animal on a chain but was growing weaker by the day. That he wasn't eating. If she had it in her, a long-term dream, she would pluck Agent Booth from that basement corner and lock him up somewhere where she could watch him and hold it over Dr. Brennan's head for months. Maybe even an entire year. Giddy, Daisy considered if such a thing were even possible. If they didn't find him before midnight on October 31st, could she somehow disappear with him . . . make Dr. Brennan believe he had been killed?

Daisy panted, her low giggles making her feel lightheaded. It was so exciting to dream! But after the 31st, the magic might be spent. Her letter was likely to be found, and once they caught her and sat down with her, she was going to roll on everyone for a deal. But until then . . . she was in charge.

# # # # #

Mason sulked in the dark, his fists clenched tight to his side as he made his way down the front entrance to the basement. He replayed his brief exchange with his girlfriend; she sure knew how to push everyone's buttons. Maybe . . . maybe Billy had a point. Maybe he wasn't exempt from her sick and twisted necromancy.

There was little need to go all the way down. It was clear that Daisy had just been, but Mason wanted to see again for himself how helpless the Fed still was. He remembered just a few days prior when he'd walked in to Quinn's ramshackle apartment to find everything had gone according to plan—Billy had done his work well and that they, as a group, had become temporary owners of an FBI agent.

It was a huge thrill, to realize he was capable of such dangerous crimes. At least . . . in some cases, that he was best when serving as an accomplice. As if, as if, they couldn't do it _well enough_ without him. The realization made him puff out his chest with pride. Made him sneer at the invisible faces from his past who demeaned him as nothing better than a layabout.

Mason opened the door, flipping on a penlight he'd brought as he made his way through the darkened room. The Fed, he saw, as he bounced the small beam around, was still in the corner, bound, nearly motionless. There was still breath, a tiny, jumpy movement taking his chest just a bit from the door, then back, up, down. Mason watched, his intent to pummel the Fed, or swear or sneer at him, punch him just once cooling off.

_This is the man with the power, _Mason thought slowly. It was unreal.

Daisy had . . . she'd really done it, made it happen. Mason had never seen any of them, save for Dr. Hodgins' form quickly lit by the obscene glow of a headlight as their car barreled down upon him, a thin man, short, with tight curly hair, his skin and eyes white as a blur of snow. That was all; he hadn't ever seen the others in passing, had no idea whose faces were stretched tight by fear. Only Daisy knew. And Quinn. But it meant more to Daisy; they had done all of this because Daisy had said. Because she wanted.

He kicked the ground absently, his thoughts drifting back to a few beers ago and his conversation with Billy in the van yesterday. Mason had always felt dwarfed in the presence of his friends—Billy, by his size, Quinn, by his enjoyment, and Daisy . . . she had a twisted gift of knowing how to make everyone feel small. He stared at the Fed, guessing that she had been able to make even the usually courageous, dangerous and perhaps fearless man feel insignificant, useless, helpless. A gift, a gift all right. Anger flashed inside him; among the three of them, there was an unspoken resentment of Daisy's prowess, her needs and desires, the effortless way she became a catalyst. This wasn't the first time she had set things in motion; she was a born leader—a born _cult_ leader, that was for sure, Mason sneered. Yet none of them had ever had the guts to say it to her face: knock it off, cut it, stop it, just be a weak little girl. It didn't matter anyway; Daisy always had a retort ready, as if she had been able to predict their arguments and protestations against her and plan accordingly. Freaking spooky, she was.

Even Stan. . . . All she had to do was flirt in a miniskirt, plead and cajole, and she had him, too. But she had sort of . . . ordered his death, hadn't she? Stan was dead now.

A patch of goose bumps rose on his upper arms.

He'd show her. He'd show all of them. _I'm not weak,_ Mason thought, staring hard at the Fed. There wasn't a response. Upstairs, Daisy had been so cool, cool like ice, slipping away from his grasp like water; she was often hard to hold on to. He wanted to make her mad, drive her crazy, make her scream and threaten him. He thought about getting the upper hand, getting to be the one who threw her against a wall, made her stay there until he let go. He grinned, and went forward, lowering the penlight to his side and he fumbled in his pocket. She didn't know he had this, that he'd taken it from her bedside table drawer as she slept, her hair loose against her pillow, looking so innocent.

Mason couldn't explain why he'd taken it, he just had. He'd forgotten about it, but right now might be the best time to take it out, make it "disappear". No one had to be the wiser, he could finally know something none of them did.

What would make Daisy even madder was if he just used the key to release the Fed right now. He could; this tiny key opened all the chains' locks. Mason thought about it briefly, but realized he didn't want to risk the Fed attacking him. The dude may look still but he might be gathering up energy under that ghost face mask. Nah, wasn't worth it. Mason rolled the key between his fingertips and raised the penlight to cast over Booth to find a good spot to leave it. If the Fed saw the light, Mason had no clue, because again, there was no reaction. Mason panned the light up and down the Fed's body, finally stopping on one of his gloved hands. Mason got a lump in his throat; he remembered suddenly that he wasn't in disguise, and that his hands were bare. Hastily, he wiped the key on the the hem of his shirt and then pressed the key into the elastic band of the glove, letting it drop from his fingers. Briefly, he touched the clammy skin of the Fed. Repulsed, he pulled back quickly, nearly tripping backwards. The light swung wildly as he flailed.

Done, it was done. Mason's heart rate sped up and he spun around, almost in a run towards the door. He could feel the grin plastered to his face. It was stupid, so damn stupid and he knew it.

But Daisy was going to _freak_. He laughed to himself.

# # # # #

Quinn saw her coming in through the front doors of the Jeffersonian, her eyes bright, as if she didn't have a care in the world. He saw that she was trying hard to repress a wide grin. He was tempted, for a few seconds, to stop her, tell her she shouldn't go before them, that she was only going to be digging her own grave. His too. Quinn considered she would just want to put him in his place if he said, _"Don't go in there, I wouldn't, if I were you."_

But he knew that she . . . also wanted to go down. The two of them shared this, secretly, though neither hadn't said a word to the other, a word to the others about it.

"_Don't go in there, I wouldn't, if I were you." _

But he had, and he'd almost "confessed"; there was a wrenching in his gut as he watched Daisy stride in, head for the stairs, then choose the elevator. What was she up to? From where he was in the building, on the second level, he could see her but she couldn't see him.

After the doors closed, he peeked around the wall, trying to see where she was going. Down. But they were waiting upstairs, in one of the conference rooms. Maybe . . . maybe she was a coward after all. Or maybe . . . Quinn's skin went cold. He wanted to leave; when he went before them, his confession was almost mostly "innocent", mentioned nothing about his friends who were involved. But Daisy . . . she wasn't so loyal. She could turn, just like that. All that mattered to her was Dr. Brennan's attention. Quinn turned around, walking normally though his head was spinning. He'd done what he could here; hoped the extra clue he'd given was just enough. Time was in their hands now.


	16. Chapter 16: Dead Is The New Alive

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own any reference to _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, _Pirates of the Caribbean_, Johnny Depp, Guy Fawkes, _V for Vendetta_, or the song lyrics at beginning of the chapter are from The Hit Crew's "Who Let The Ghosts Out?".

Author's Note: When I originally began this story _five years_ _ago_, I had no idea of the shape it would take or what different directions it would go in. I thought I was just writing a short, simple story about pranks at Halloween and Brennan rescuing Booth from a haunted house that would be completed by Halloween of 2007. Unfortunately, due to many, many, many, many writer's blocks, updating has never gone as smoothly as planned, hence why this story was last updated in October 2010.

This chapter is a bit shorter than others have been, but I wanted to get an update out there _before_ Halloween. Also there will be only one full chapter and one short epilogue following this chapter. The second to last chapter is almost fully written and the epilogue itself is complete. Mainly, I hope to have this entire story completed with a satisfying conclusion by November of this year.

Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers, and for your infinite patience. I do hope you enjoy the last few chapters. :) Happy Halloween!

~silverluna

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**Chapter Sixteen: How Else Do We Survive? Dead Is The New Alive **

**#####################################################################################################**

"_Halloween night comes once a year_

_When lots of spooky things appear_

_There's pumpkins and skeletons _

_and scary sounds too_

_Like when someone comes up _

_And goes Boo!_

_#_

"_Who let the ghosts out?_

_I wish they didn't do it_

_Who let the ghosts out?_

_What a fright!_

_Who let the ghosts out?_

_They really blew it!_

_Who let the ghosts out?_

_On Halloween night?_

_#_

"_Was it you? Ooooh_

_Was it you? Ooooh_

_#_

"_You better watch out when you trick-or-treat_

_There's little witches and goblins in the street_

_The thing just might scare you the most _

_Is if you meet up with a ghost!"_

—The Hit Crew

###################################################################################################################

# # # # #

There was no way in hell she was about to go before them. On the car ride over here, she'd changed her mind. She wasn't as stupid as they thought—_they_ being everyone from her little group to the good science-based detectives of Dr. Brennan's team. After all, Daisy had gotten herself (all by herself) accepted into Dr. Brennan's extremely exclusive—best in the country—forensics internship.

It would only be . . . a matter of time.

She had already pictured it unraveling, slumped in a pile of mismatched regrets and spent fun around her feet, though she liked it pulled taut, like a plastic bag over Dr. Brennan's face. But killing Brennan would do her no good at all, thus the Halloween mischief would have to end. Just a few short days and it would all . . . be history.

Calmly, Daisy stepped into the elevator, on her way down. She hummed to herself, giddy on the inside about all that had transpired in the place she had just left. But she kept her face blank.

The days—agonizing for Dr. Brennan and her friends—were filled with a delicious rush for Daisy, but never felt hurried. In fact, the entire time, she'd felt as if she were floating, as if she was almost outside of herself. Daisy adjusted the straps of her purse against her shoulder. _I'm here,_ she thought. _I'm real._

She had come, under the guise of Quinn's beckoning, to retrieve a few things. Still, there was no doubt in her mind that all paths would eventually lead back to her. As long as she was able to have all her fun first. Daisy had been daring enough—reckless enough—to keep the T-Rex mask she'd shoved into her bag before leaving the haunted house. It was half squished inside-out, with other items dropped over it; before getting out the car, she'd reached in for lipstick only to have her fingertips brush against it.

Daisy lowered the driver's side visor, pressing the pigment to her lips. It was the wrong shade; must have been one of the tubes she'd grabbed in a handful from the haunted house's makeup room. Still, she smiled at her reflection, marveling that the application had managed not to spread to her teeth. Daisy then wiped the color off with the back of her hand. Red lips. She couldn't go inside like that. Even this close to Halloween. Looking like she was bleeding from the mouth.

The case with the partial skull . . . Daisy had found as much connection to it as Quinn had, instantaneous, as if there was as much known as much was missing—a half life. What remained. The two of them, without the influence of the others' opinions, had made the decision to include it, a delicious red herring—well, Daisy had thought of it as a delicious misdirection, though Quinn had insisted it would only, in the end, lead straight back to them. To her.

Yes. She wouldn't want it any other way.

Daisy considered it often, Dr. Brennan's fingerprints staining the letter Daisy had painstakingly composed only for her, absorbing the words, tucked for now, unknown and safe, in a Brennan's desk drawer. It was the ghost of a love letter—really, what she had created this Halloween, starting with malicious but mostly harmless pranks, was the real act of love, the most substantial letter.

Daisy's love letter to the Infinite—Dr. Brennan.

# # # # #

Dr. Saroyan, on her way to the lab, passed one of the interns. He smiled at her respectively, greeting her as he passed. Cam nodded back; she was admittedly distracted. She, Hodgins, Angela and Zach had just spent the better part of a half an hour discussing, in depth, Quinn Masters. What they knew, what they didn't, what they had learned. They had even considered the possibilities of a red herring—though the discussion had almost dissolved in to the nonsense of considering why Masters would go to such trouble.

"One," Angela had brought up, getting everyone's attention. "It can't just be one, can it? The prankster?" No one had an immediate answer. "Even the note with the verse—didn't it hint at 'we'?"

They had gotten it out and studied it. There was more than hinting, they realized collectively. The word "we" had been mentioned five times. Zach, surprisingly, had been the one to suggest that that might be the red herring—that the "we" suggested more than one.

But it hardly made sense, in the category of "what they knew" about Quinn Masters, that Masters had it out for any of them, that he had some special interest in hurting Dr. Brennan. Besides that, there was his body type. It was difficult to picture a young man of his physical stature—thin, small boned, not much taller than 5'7", if that—getting the best of Agent Booth. Even if he was stronger than he looked—and had had the element of surprise on his side when he attacked with chloroform—there was more than likely a chance that Booth would have been able to overpower him at some point.

Hodgins huffed, pulling up the bad memory of his own near death experience. In spite of the glare of the headlights, he would swear, under oath, that there was more than one person in that car. There were statistics for these things—the group mentality vs. a singular one; so many criminals did act alone. Narcissists, megalomaniacs, sociopaths, psychopaths—but it was hard for him, ironically, to believe that there was only one involved. Maybe . . . just one at the wheel—of the whole operation.

Even if it was Quinn at the wheel, Cam told the others to look at the rest of the flagged files. "I'll go catch up with Dr. Brennan," she told them, leaving with all that was said still fresh in her mind. It might make a difference if they could locate a next of kin for Carlson, if they could get some answers of just who this man had been and if he had enemies, but so far both the local LEOs and the FBI had come up empty-handed, as had she and Dr. Brennan, separately.

In a way, Stan Carlson's case resembled that of the partial skull, where only the most basic facts were known. For the skull, perhaps less—only what could be read in the bones. An age, a gender, degraded condition of bone. Angela had made a composite sketch but so little was known it had been impossible to match the half drawing to the missing persons database.

In fact, it was almost suspicious, Cam considered suddenly, that Carlson's credit and financial checks had yielded nothing out of the ordinary, especially when the man seemed to favor collecting rather exotic spiders. Where had that money come from—and where had it gone? On the hunch, she called Agent Perotta, to discover if there was truly something they had missed.

# # # # #

It had been so literally in front of her face the entire time, yet she had been almost ignorant of this fact, only because she been missing a crucial piece of information. After Mr. Nigel-Murray left, Brennan found herself distracted by what had been said. She wandered, half aware of where she was going, from the lab to her office. Recalling the search Hodgins had performed online that led him to find Booth's voice blaring from speakers in various haunted houses, Brennan herself turned to the Internet, typing in "junior high tonight" and "dc" at the laptop on her desk.

Less than three seconds later, a long list of results popped up. Song lyrics, reviews of albums, several listings for Halloween attractions, including popular haunted houses in and around Washington D.C. Brennan, barely breathing, clicked one link that looked most promising, a website for the same haunted house Mr. Nigel-Murray mentioned.

The link took her to a simply designed webpage with a backdrop of what was presumably the haunted house itself, an old, large black building that may have once been livable housing, but it was hard for her to tell from the single shot. In the FAQs section, Brennan read that the majority of the haunted house was in the situated in the building's basement, and that the attraction, though nearly a half an hour's drive from the city center, was well worth the trip. Thousands of guests rated the attraction at five out of five stars; as she scrolled through the comments section, several users stated they returned year after year, finding the haunted house to only get better and scarier.

With Booth's distant cries for help seeming to guide her, Brennan clicked on the site's "About Us" link, which offered a blurb of the attraction's history.

_Started in 2001 by proprietor, Stan Carlson, as a safe haven from the dangers of downtown D.C. for his stepson and local neighborhood children, Junior High Tonight Haunted House . . . _

Brennan released a startled breath, unable to read more. Stan Carlson, the murder victim in the Jeffersonian's lab, was the proprietor of this haunted house. And . . . what else had Mr. Nigel-Murray said?

_"Quinn Masters, he is an intern here, recommended it to me. Apparently, his stepfather runs and owns it . . . it's set back a solid eight miles on his property, I think that's what he told me. Quinn, his stepfather, and a group of friends help out with it every year."_

Stan Carlson . . . was Quinn Masters _stepfather_? Brennan stood up abruptly, rattled. They had just spoken with Quinn Masters and he'd made no mention . . . he was next of kin. He had made no attempts to claim the body, either.

How did they not know—how did she not know?

Brennan went towards the door, nearly colliding with Cam, on her way in. Cam jumped, apologizing. "You weren't in the lab, so I—"

Taking a moment to look Dr. Brennan over, Cam noticed how white Brennan's complexion was, but guessed Tempe would not, in any sense, appreciate the phrase 'You look like you've seen a ghost.' "Are you all right?" she asked instead.

"No," Brennan answered honestly, pushing past Cam into the hallway. "I need to get everyone together—there's something I just found out."

Cam followed her, curious. "What is it?"

"I want to tell everyone at the same time." The two woman walked together towards the conference room. "You were looking for me," Brennan stated when Cam offered nothing.

"Yes," Cam said, explaining her recent conversation with Agent Perrotta. "Carlson financed a business close to his property, about ten miles from it."

Brennan stopped. She felt queasy suddenly, which made little sense physically. "Eight miles," she corrected quietly, watching Cam stop as well and turn to face her. "It's a haunted house."

# # # # #

Daisy exited the Jeffersonian, peeling off the latex gloves and stuffing them into her purse as she stepped outside. She couldn't help humming to herself, nor help the faint smile that was stuck to her lips.

"_It's a haunted house." _This, she'd heard come from Dr. Brennan's lips as Daisy made her way out of the lab, where she gone for one last look. Quickly, Daisy scooted to the elevators, covering her mouth with her fingers. _Yes! I knew Dr. Brennan had it in her to figure it all out!_

She'd poked her head into the lab, which was empty except for Stan's corpse, covered with a sheet. Daisy considered leaving a note on the body, "Can't wait to see you, QoD," but had been hit with an unexpected dread at seeing Stan dead, up close like that. He had been someone she had known when he was alive, after all, and though she had thought that his death might be necessary, she hadn't really thought so far ahead of how it would feel to view the body after ordering the kill.

Her spirits lifted as she walked away, deciding to return to the haunted house and spend the night. She had just two nights to scare everyone who arrived of their own free will—as well as those there she could blackmail if they tried to double cross her, and the weakening Agent Booth—and wanted to enjoy what time might be left.

# # # # #

Again, the five of them gathered, Brennan and Cam each explaining their discoveries.

"Is it enough for a search warrant?" Angela asked, looking towards Cam and Brennan, after she had heard everything.

Before Cam could answer, Brennan said softly, "We can't. We can't ask for one."

"What do you mean?" Cam frowned. "If we know, that could be considered probable cause."

Brennan shrugged, seeming uncomfortable. "Ordinarily, that would be the logical—but I don't think we can take that chance with Booth's life. I'm not 100 percent certain he is in there, and if he isn't, they might just . . ." Her voice faded.

"Take him elsewhere?" Zach continued for her.

"Or leave him somewhere to die," Hodgins added, his voice flat. Angela hissed, wanting as much as Brennan had not to hear this said aloud. Brennan nodded though, sad and lost. Clearing his thought, he added,"Then there's only one thing to do."

Cam shook her head. "Knowing you, I don't think I want to know."

"We can't talk here," Hodgins said. "I think I know the place; I'll check it out and then call with an address. Be there, 4:30 sharp, no exceptions." He left before anyone could contest his words.

"What was that all about?" Zach asked, looking at Angela.

She shrugged. _Just what are you up to, Jack?_

_# # # # #_

"Dr. Hodgins, why did you want us you meet you here?" Dr. Sayoran asked, gesturing to the back alley entrance of a nondescript beige building. It was 4:30 sharp, as he had asked, and the sun was readying for its descent. The alley smelled like wet leaves and winter air. Cam huddled against the wall as she, Brennan, Angela, and Zach waited for Hodgins to make clear what they were doing there.

Jack held a finger, signaling for silence, and peered around the alleyway, listening also. It appeared empty, save for the five of them. "You weren't followed, were you?" he whispered, raising his eyebrows. "Did you check your clothing for bugs?"

"What are you talking about?" Zach cut in.

"Seriously," Cam added, raising her eyebrow sternly at him.

"I thought we needed to get away from the lab without letting anyone know where we were going," Hodgins began, "because tonight, we're going undercover."

"We're scientists, not secret agents," Brennan said quietly. "We shouldn't be in some alley unless it's a crime scene and we have work to do. Our time is . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"I know we do, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said gently. "That's why we're here."

The four of them glared at him. "Follow me," he said, stepping past the group to ease the door open. It was dark in the hallway, but they diligently marched behind him.

"Jack, please. Tell us—" Angela tried.

"I have to show you," he said from the front of the line. At the end of the hallway was another door; he opened that and went through to their first destination. The others, upon reaching the room, gaped speechlessly until Brennan broke in, angry.

"We have less than 33 hours to figure this out, find Booth," Brennan seethed. "And you brought us to a Halloween costume warehouse? What were you thinking? I'm very disappointed in you, Dr. Hodgins."

Hodgins was unfazed. "I was only taking my cue from you, Dr. Brennan," he told her.

"How?" Temperance asked.

"Really, how?" Cam and Angela asked at the same time. Zach was standing there stiffly, but had begun to glance around at the vast array of costumes. The store was silent, and he was about to ask why, but knew it was hardly relevant to the conversation. He was also interested in knowing why they weren't back in the lab where his and Dr. Brennan's geniuses were best served.

"We'll have to don costumes, make ourselves look less inconspicuous," Hodgins revealed, "and this costumery is the best kept secret in D.C."

"How is wearing a costume going to make each of us less inconspicuous?" Zach asked, unable to reason out the variables.

"This is a waste of time." Brennan frowned. "Anything we know we have to tell the FBI. The FBI won't let us anywhere near—"

"And won't it look suspicious to them if we suddenly don costumes and go partake in Halloween activities?" Zach asked. "In the middle of an investigation, during a disappearance of a Federal Agent?"

"Yes, Zach, all valid points!" Dr. Brennan agreed, nodding vigorously.

Angela blew a sigh out of the corner of her mouth, throwing Zach a fast look that asked why he did not know Hodgins' train of thought by now. "Because, if we're dressed like partygoers," she explained, "we won't look like ourselves, and we'll be less vulnerable. They might not know who we are, giving us a better chance to find Booth."

"You're really suggesting we go inside ourselves? Without any backup?" Brennan asked, incredulous such crazy things were coming from Hodgins' and Angela's mouths.

"You could always just do what you did when you found out Booth was being held at that hanger," Hodgins told her offhandedly.

"That was illegal," Angela answered, hands on her hips.

"That was a different circumstance," Brennan disagreed.

"Not that much," Hodgins said, shrugging at Angela's hard look.

"Then, I knew what I was doing," Brennan said, frustrated.

Cam looked at the three of them, deciding it was best if she didn't know the specifics of what Brennan had done in the past. Sighing, she made another decision. "I don't believe I should be a part of this." She held up her hand to stop protestations. "I am on your side, but if you're planning what it is I think you are, I should stay neutral for damage control, if it comes to that. Not to mention that you will need me to call in your backup," Cam told them. After making tentative plans to meet at the diner in a few hours to make a solid plan of execution for tomorrow night, she left them to their devices, hoping they were all doing the right thing. Being a former LEO, it went against many codes she lived by (and still lived by, to be honest), to almost turn a blind eye to what her team was going to attempt.

After Cam left, Hodgins and Zach began to look for potential costumes. In spite of Halloween being tomorrow, the store's stock wasn't entirely cleaned out.

Brennan didn't move, hovering just inside the doorway. When she had made the discovery just a few hours ago, she hadn't the slightest inclination this was where she would be led, that plans to infiltrate the dead proprietor's haunted house would become an option on the sole reason that he and Quinn Masters had been "related" and ran this particular haunted house together . . . with, as Brennan remembered, "a group of friends".

Could this group comprise of their pranksters? Carlson's murder or murderers? Booth's abductors? Brennan may have stayed still, thinking endlessly, if Angela hadn't put her arm around her shoulders. "We think . . . Booth is in this place?" Brennan said slowly.

"It's possible, isn't it?" Angela replied. She offered a sympathetic glance as she counted off the possibilities of the why and how. "They could have tied him up, drugged him, or the place could be very noisy, with music or soundtracks or just from the actors and the tour groups."

"But . . . how could no one know that—"

Angela squeezed Brennan's shoulder. "If they made him part of the show, dressed him in costume like any other actor, then how could anyone know?"

Brennan stiffened, anger and fear pulling her in two different directions. She felt that ghost sickness she had earlier, without her body reacting in a physical way. She stepped out of Angela's grasp and went to nearby box, riffling through it though she felt foolish. Pausing, a long colorful cloth still dangling from her hands, she sighed. "This feels like a waste of time." She fixed a glare at Hodgins, who had his back to them, too eagerly searching racks for something suitable.

"It's not, Sweetie." Angela held her ground when Brennan rounded on her.

"How is it not?"

"Because, what if this is what the pranksters—Booth's abductors—really want?" Angela asked in the same subdued tone. "If we know where they are, why shouldn't we go?" Angela watched Brennan purse her lips. "It's not just Booth they went after, and the reason why Hodgins suggested this whole deal was so we could get on their turf and look like we are playing by their rules. They've challenged us—or you, more specifically—to find Booth in time."

It was hard to say contest that, even when Brennan still had at least twenty good reasons on the tip of her tongue how terrible an idea it was.

Brennan sighed audibly, unable to help wondering what Booth would think of the country's most brilliant forensic anthropologist giving in to a child's game of dress up when his life was on the line. But Booth had a gun and FBI security clearance. He could find probable cause only if there was some. Yet she had initially refused a search warrant, had decided against including Agent Perotta, as if she had somehow already agreed to Hodgins' idea though not knowing what it was.

They were closer to the truth but factors still eluded them. Though it pained her to consider this plan viable, their time was running out. Booth's time was running out.

"Okay," she said, plunging her hands back into the box.

"Okay?" Hodgins repeated, spinning around. "It's a go?" Angela shot him a warning to wipe the excited grin from his features. He did so, clearing his throat. "Okay, Dr. Brennan!"

"Just tell me I won't have to be the back of a horse," Zach said to the room, to no one in particular.

# # # # #

At six thirty pm on October 31st, Junior High Tonight Haunted House opened its doors to the public for one last night of scares. The most diehard patrons had lined up an hour before, several in costume, on their way to parties, clubs, other attractions, or late night trick-or-treating. Later into the night, patrons would stop by here on their way home from such other Halloween festivities.

A group of four emerged from the dark at eight pm, each in costume, to stand in line with many other patrons, most chatting excitedly about what was to come or what else they had planned for Halloween. Three of the four had chosen to wear masks with their costumes, while one had covered her face entirely in makeup, and wore a red wig that resembled doll's hair.

"OMG! Sally the Rag Doll from _Nightmare before Christmas_!" a teenage girl dressed like a sexy zombie squealed in appreciation of Angela's choice of costume. "It's classic! You look so cool! Are you a makeup artist?'

"Thanks," Angela smiled, squeezing Brennan's hand before she stepped forward to chat with the girl and her friends for a few minutes. Though she wondered if Zach was more nervous than she was, Angela couldn't help feeling a little scared. Yesterday, after they were finished choosing disguises, Brennan and Hodgins had been more than ready to tackle the haunted house, but Cam had surprised them all by showing up at the diner with Vincent Nigel-Murray. He had offered not only to draw them a detailed map of the haunted house's bowels, but also to go on a "test run" on Devil's Night, the night before Halloween.

Cam considered him ruled out as a suspect and wanted someone outside their group they could trust. He had not been given specifics as to why, but thought he had been chosen to go in beforehand to screen it for Dr. Brennan, to tell of the scariest scenes, all for scientific purposes. Cam did nothing to contradict his illusions, glad only for the help.

Even more surprising, Vincent had returned with gossip—valuable information—that could be used to make a credible case.

So here they were, waiting to go in.

"This mask is itchy," Zach complained quietly as they got closer to the door.

"Shh," Hodgins hissed, then whispered back, "we should have left you at the Jeffersonian, Jack Skellington."

"That would have been preferable," Zach admitted, earning him what he presumed to be a sharp look from Dr. Brennan, though it was hard to tell through her _V for Vendetta_ Guy Fawkes mask. "_You_ should have been Jack Skellington."

"Pshaw," Hodgins muttered. "I thought I was more suited to Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Wearing a Johnny Depp mask over your face doesn't qualify—"

"Hush!" Hodgins whispered. "Look, it's our turn to go in. Cam, did you get that?"

Angela, ahead of them, waved for them to hurry.

Cam, listening from the Jeffersonian, via earpieces and transmitters, answered. "I heard. Be careful."

Brennan followed Angela through the doorway, hating the mask she chose, hating to play the pranksters' game the way they wanted it played, hating that this was her last resort. But then, if this was the only way to get Booth back, Brennan was more than ready to face fears.


	17. Chapter 17: The Shadows Keep On Changing

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Quote at the beginning is from Poe's song "Haunted".

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, favorites and alerts! It's really cool to know I haven't lost all of my readers and reviewers during the very long hiatus. Last chapter I had said there was going to be only one more chapter plus a short epilogue, but that's changed a bit due to an inspiration writing session today, so now there may be this chapter and then another and _then_ the short epilogue. Thanks again for all the wonderful encouragement and support!

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading and sticking with this story! :)

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**Chapter Seventeen: I'm Lost And The Shadows Keep On Changing **

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"_And I'm haunted_

_By the lives that I have loved_

_And actions I have hated_

_I'm haunted_

_By the lives that wove the web_

_Inside my haunted head."_

—Poe, "Haunted"

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# # # # #

Booth started awake, both instantly aware and unaware of his surroundings; a distant part of his mind recognized the confinement, a thing much too familiar these days, while the rest of him took precious seconds for struggling, depleting his low energy supply. Lack of consistent nourishment, water and light had left him in a state of endless disorientation, taking him much too long to recall what had happened to him and how long—supposedly long—he'd been here.

Booth's most coherent thoughts were of the two most important people in his life: Brennan and his son, though he willed himself to not spend too much time thinking about Parker because it made his insides hurt and summoned a rage that exhausted him in the span of minutes. His son, he hoped at Parker's young age, was blissfully unaware of his father's long absence, instead consumed with excitement at the upcoming holiday and the prospect of a bag full of free candy. A holiday his father was being forced to miss.

He leaned his head back against the door he was bound to and let his mind fill up with Brennan. He hadn't lost hope that she would figure out where he was, but he had become nervous that she hadn't found him yet. It had become impossible to know how much time had passed, but it felt like weeks, unacceptable especially for a genius anthropologist and her team of loyal, brilliant Squints. Booth's mind had begun to play tricks on him, whispering horrible things in his ear. _Brennan wasn't looking for him because she had been badly injured . . . or taken away herself . . . or killed._

In spite of these horrible scenarios, Booth still couldn't quite imagine Brennan in a hospital, a cell, or a morgue. He could easily picture her in the lab at the Jeffersonian, bending over a skeleton, deep in thought. He could easily picture her light years away, light at the end of the tunnel he couldn't crawl out of on his own. His pain at being tied up in this awkward position with its limited range of motion, as well as from the possibly days earlier pummeling attack, had subsided into dullness, numbness, leaving him to wonder if he would retain muscle capacity to stand up on his own, if he was ever given the chance again.

A peal of giggling and strange rumbling sounds cut into his slowed train of thought. Yes . . . these were the noises that he had brought him around, noises that took up the space of five or six hours . . . each day. Or night. He wasn't sure, since it was always dark in the corner he was in, and his only view was of a wall. He wished more than anything that someone, anyone at this point, would take the gag out of his mouth. It was too tight, too thick, and too unmovable; he'd tried countless times to push it off and bite through it, but it remained stubbornly in place. Booth knew it was still serving a purpose—these were human voices around him, strangers, so near to him that any one could have helped him if they knew he was prisoner behind his mask.

# # # # #

Angela led the way, presenting herself first as an open target at being recognized, in spite of the wig, her painted doll face and colored contact lenses. She had an alternate agenda for wearing this and not a physical mask—she wanted to prove to these criminals that she was no longer afraid of them, and that a tense anger at their putting her friends through this nightmare had replaced her own fear. Her own pranking had been quite low level, barely a step above Cam's, in spite of her minor injury. But both Zach's and Hodgins' had been on the side of malicious and deadly, even if the intent in either case had not been to kill.

She talked Brennan out of wearing a sari and a few colored veils across her head and face, steering her instead towards the Guy Fawkes mask. Angela had to explain the significance of it and waited patiently through Brennan's dismissal of the movie's message. Angela thought it was perfect for Brennan to wear, however. "Your eyes will give you away, Sweetie," she'd told Brennan, holding back getting into the emotion Brennan held there and sticking to the physical traits of color and shape. "These people, Quinn Masters at the least, know who you are, know what you look like. That's why we've got to do this, wear the disguises and all." Somehow she'd managed to get Jack and Zach to follow her logic and they'd put on masks as well.

Angela was slightly relieved that the local police were on standby at Cam's request, parked a mile or so out of the way of Stan Carlson's residence, but tried not to think what might happen once the four of them were inside—if something came up the four of them might not be able to handle. Brennan had extensive self-defense training though, so unless there was a weapon involved, Angela hoped they would all be all right.

The entrance was dimly light with candles and glow-in-the-dark paint, arrows pointing down towards an enclosed staircase. Angela latched onto to the tour group of the girls dressed like sexy monsters, zombies and vampires, while the others caught up to her. Spooky music wafted up from the basement as they got on the stairs. Angela felt someone grab her hand from behind, stroking her wrist gently. Jack. She squeezed back and continued to walk down.

"Was this a bad idea?" Hodgins whispered so only she could hear. He sounded a little shaky, but also excited. Angela shrugged in the dark.

"We were out of good ideas, weren't we?" she answered. Turning her head towards him, she caught sight of another masked person in a Hoodie, one that was evidently following their tour. She hadn't seen this person in line with them earlier. Frowning, she focused on her steps. _It could be anyone under that mask,_ she thought.

# # # # #

Brennan followed Angela, her arms stiff at her sides. In spite of the discomfort of the mask, the costume itself with its all black fabric and long cape provided her to discreetly clutch her pepper spray with her finger on the nozzle. She took in the frights and thrills of the haunted house with the constant filter of science disproving each novelty, leaving her distractedly bored. She noticed the group of teenagers at the head of the group jump and shriek at every thing that moved in the dark, every thing that roared or howled. They often dissolved into giggles or loud chatter following these "scares", leaving Temperance annoyed at their childishness. She herself was intent on following the path Vincent Nigel-Murray had described to them last night, staying alert so that when—if—she came across the predators, she could fight back if she needed to.

"There are killers in this haunted house," their tour guide told them, causing the teenagers to murmur and laugh nervously. "Some living killers and some dead." The guide swept an arm towards a large Frankenstein's monster sized man standing behind jail cell bars, rattling them and throwing his weight against them, trying to get out. He moaned and growled at them, and under the lowlight of the guide's flashlight, Brennan was able to see an elaborate makeup job which caused him to look deathly pale and bloodied, his throat appearing slit open and dripping blood. Brennan flinched, seconds before the monster's loud growl made the others jump, and stepped back. For the first time since she agreed to this out of character stunt, she considered Booth to be truly dead, murdered or killed from neglect, and she was too late.

The monster shook the bars and howled as if he were in pain. Brennan moved away from her group, determined to find a wall to stabilize herself; she had started sweating under her costume, her mouth tasting like copper.

"One, two, coming for you," she heard a soft voice singsong, not sure of where it was coming from. "Three, four, I want some more." Brennan turned in the direction she thought she heard it, listening closely for more. "Five, six, we have a Fed in the mix."

The tour guide was saying something else about the man behind the bars, but Temperance focused only on this other voice, leaving the safety of her group as she walked off to find it. She wasn't certain she'd just heard what she thought she'd heard, and tried to concentrate better. Somewhere behind her, there was metal on metal and girls screaming, lion-like roars, but Brennan didn't turn back. _A Fed?_ she asked herself. _A Federal Agent? _

"Seven, eight," the voice continued, a notch louder than before, "Dr. Brennan is great."

Temperance paused, a cold feeling on the back of her neck. There was a sudden recognition that she couldn't quite place, but she knew this voice as familiar. Quickly ruling out contact she had outside of work, what little contact there was, Brennan considered that this voice belonged to . . . one the interns at the Jeffersonian. A young female, perhaps the same she had seen a few days earlier, the one with the ponytail. Perhaps. Brennan started towards the voice again, racking her brilliant mind to come up with a face, with a name.

These last words were spoken with a lilt of appreciation. A young female intern. The brunette with the dark brown eyes who always wore a ponytail and seemed to hang on each and every word that Dr. Brennan said. Temperance turned to ask Zach, thinking he would know who she was trying to place, and realized that she was alone. Swallowing a clump of worry that settled in her throat, she waited, listening again for sounds she'd let escape her before.

The taunting singsong voice had gone quiet though, giving up its counting rhymes. Brennan made a slow circle, trying to discover her surroundings, or at least a way back. She was bothered that she couldn't name the person she needed to when the significance of the name was so important. Not once could she remember Quinn Masters behaving towards her in any way that suggested admiration or something more, something worse or sinister, but this young woman . . . she was overly enthusiastic, she oozed confidence and spoke loudly about topics that often had little to do with anthropology, but she also often displayed skill and intelligence beyond her years, and she was always eager to learn.

Temperance recalled suddenly an instance at the lab in which the woman had thrown her arms around her after she had been presented with a small compliment. Temperance put a hand behind her, feeling for the wall she'd wanted earlier, a stable and solid surface so she could pause again and catch her breath. The memory flooded her before she could find the wall, though, so she stepped backward into open space, barely registering the neon glow-in-the-dark paint on the floor around her.

_The young woman looked up at Brennan as she held on to her waist, a grin on her face. "Dr. Brennan, does this mean you'll consider me for Zach Addy's replacement?" Her eyes sparkled. "You know I'm the best candidate for this job, you just said so yourself."_

_Dr. Brennan frowned and put her hand on the woman's arm, pushing her back. "That's not what I said, Ms. Wick. I was referring to this case in particular." _

_Undeterred by Dr. Brennan's words, the woman replied, "I know what you said, but I know you're already considering me." The woman let go of her and stepped back, still beaming. "You know as well as I do how good we would be together. I mean, look at this case in particular!" _

_Brennan frowned again. "You are putting your abilities out of context. Now I suggest we get back to work."_

_The young woman nodded, and though she was no longer smiling as brightly, there was still a gleam in her eyes. "You won't regret it, Dr. Brennan," she said, "if I become your full time assistant." _

Temperance blinked vigorously beneath her mask, resisting the urge to lift it. She found herself looking at the floor to calm herself, her eyes following the glowing neon colors.

Ms. Wick. Ms. _Daisy Wick._

"_You know as well as I do how good we would be together." _

"_You won't regret it, Dr. Brennan, if . . ."_

Temperance released a shuddering breath. At the time, she hadn't guessed this to be a threat, hadn't really thought that much of it at all. Still looking at the floor, she was startled to discover the paint on the floor was not a random pattern but words. A rhyme.

_Nine, ten, Halloween will end. One, two, he's dead to you. Three, four, shut the door._

Brennan gasped, spinning to follow the rest of the words that wound around to a hallway.

_Five, six,_ she read, walking with her head down around the corner, _we know the tricks. Seven, eight, you know his fate. Nine, ten, the game will end. _

"I knew you were coming, Dr. Brennan," the soft voice from earlier spoke, startling Brennan. She looked up, scrunching her eyebrows. The body belonging to the voice stood not more than ten feet in front of her, the face covered by a green dinosaur mask, hand on the jutted out hip. She was also dressed all in black, Dr. Brennan noted.

"I'm not Dr. Brennan," Brennan countered, poorly disguising her voice.

The dinosaur laughed, a high pitched pealing. "Yes you are. I'd know you anywhere."

Brennan squared her shoulders and gripped her pepper spray tighter. "Where's Booth?" she demanded.

"Omigod, Dr. Brennan, you should know how proud of you I am! I knew you were going to figure this out." The figure dropped her arms to her sides. "Once you had the _right_ motivation."

"Where's Booth?" Brennan yelled, taking a few steps forward. The cape flared out behind her.

The figure laughed again and pulled back, almost blending into the dark. "In all my wildest imaginings, I wouldn't have pictured _you_ coming _here_, dressed like _that_!" The green mask with its yellow eyes and large pointed teeth glared at Brennan. The amusement from seconds earlier changed to an angry, hollow tone, "Of course you'd come for _him_! But you _should_ be here for me. It isn't fair, that he should get all of your attention! He isn't even special."

Brennan willed herself not to lunge at the figure in the darkness. "Ms. Wick, do yourself a favor and tell me now—"

Daisy shook her head hard, making the mask look like it was alive, having a seizure. "I will not! You're here of your own choice! If you want him back, it's up to you! If you don't find him yourself, he's going to die." The glee was back in her voice, Brennan noticed, frowning. "Die, die, die my darling!" Daisy singsonged, pulling back into the dark. "Die!"

Brennan ran after her, closing the gap quickly, enough to get a fleeting grasp of the end of a ponytail, but then Daisy was gone into the dark. Chasing Daisy may only get her more lost than she already was. According to Vincent Nigel-Murray, the haunted house could be maze-like if you didn't know your way around.

She walked back to the writing on the floor, and read over what was there again. _We know the tricks. You know his fate. The game will end. _

What had the other rhymes said? She counted the numbers back to herself, starting with ten. _Halloween will end._ Then, _two, he's dead to you. Four, shut the door._

_Halloween will end. _

_He's dead to you._

_Shut the door._

_We know the tricks._

_You know his fate._

_The game will end. _

Brennan had never been more tired of Halloween or games. Screw the rules, she was done playing. Lifting her mask, she called out, "Booth! Where are you? Booth?!"

# # # # #

The actor behind the jail cell broke free of the bars, seeming to tear them apart as he pushed forward. The young girls in the group screamed hysterically and jumped backwards. Zach yelped, startled, bumping into Hodgins. "Watch it, Jack!" Hodgins grumbled. Angela stifled a laugh, turning towards Brennan. She found empty space. "Oh no."

"What?" Hodgins said.

"Where's Brennan?" Angela whispered.

"She's right here," Zach answered, gesturing towards the empty space. "Oh. She was right there."

"Damn it," Hodgins whispered. "The plan wasn't to split up."

"What should we do?" Zach wondered.

Angela hesitated, not immediately sure if they should keep up with the group or try to find Brennan. The actor, still out of his cage, made a quick swipe at her, causing her to hurry past. It was a little too close for comfort. Hodgins and Zach followed her, Hodgins grabbing her hand. "What was that all about?" he asked shakily in her ear.

"Not sure," she said and sighed. "I guess we're staying with the group." Quietly and discreetly, she got in touch with Cam. _"What do you mean Dr. Brennan is gone?"_ she heard sharply in her ear.

"We were distracted," Angela admitted, then added, "I think we've been recognized—or at least, I have."

"_You should get out, then,"_ was Cam's response. _"I'm sending you backup now."_

"We're not leaving Brennan or Booth here," Angela retorted. "Besides, it may look more suspicious if we try to leave. There's no chicken's exit way out."

"_Fine,"_ Cam told her huffily. _"Be more careful from here on out."_

# # # # #

Brennan stared at Angela's text on her phone's screen, not sure how to answer. It was almost impossible to tell, given that this was her very first visit to this or any haunted house, in spite of Vincent hand-drawn, fairly detailed map.

_Where the hell are you?_

_In the dark,_ Brennan thought. Her cries for Booth had gone unanswered, in spite of how hard she'd been listening to the silence for any small or slight noises, so Brennan traced her steps back to the hallway where she'd last seen Daisy, pressing forward without any glowing paint to guide her. The light from her LCD screen was little help, but it was something. _Booth, where are you? _

What would he say to her if he could guide her from wherever he might be? That he was lost too, alone in the dark? What could be a reason he wouldn't answer her? Was he being guarded with a gun on him, or had he been drugged or was he unconscious?

Brennan had an irrational urge to grab Ms. Wick by her ponytail and jerk her hair until the young intern told her what the purpose of all this was, why she had seemed jealous and just what she had been admitting to with her vague confession.

Deciding to ignore Angela's text for the moment, Brennan put her phone away and pulled out her pepper spray, holding it out in front of her. She reached up and pulled the mask back over her face, though supposedly her true identity was already discovered.

She reached the end of the dark hallway and was surprised to hear voices, laughter and screams—the tour groups, she considered, must be close. Maybe a room or two away. The hallway opened up into a sparse room, dimly lit with two strips of ancient track lighting. There wasn't enough light see by though, so she wasn't aware of the other presence until a hand shoved her forward by the small of her back. Brennan let out a cry, hearing the pepper spray clatter on the floor as she fell.

Biting back a moan of pain, Brennan scrambled to her feet, ready to defend herself. She could just make out the shape of another person in the room. "What do you want?" she yelled, kicking out before her attacker could move. She caught him—or her—in the gut, hearing a gasp of air whoosh. "Who are you?" Her attacker got out of her way; Brennan could hear the person's footsteps, running out of the room. This time, she followed, determined to get some answers.

"Hey!" Brennan screamed, chasing the shadow. "The game is over!" Without warning, the shadow turned on her, shoving her again, this time into darkened doorway. Brennan lost her balance, grazing her arm on the open doorframe before she fell. Her knees already hurt from the last time she was pushed so she was jarred again when she hit the floor. She cried out and tried to move, tried to get back up and resume the chase, but the footsteps were gone.

_That . . . that couldn't have been Daisy,_ Brennan thought, wincing and breathing hard as she got to her feet. Her right arm throbbed from where she'd hit it, but her injuries couldn't be more than bruises. She was mad at herself for wasting time and losing her pepper spray. As she pushed up her mask again, Brennan realized she was in a different space, one lit with candles on the floor and a few glow-in-the-dark pumpkin and skeleton faces drawn on the walls. And . . . there was someone in the corner, perhaps an actor? Or was it just a dummy wearing a mask?

Taking out her phone for extra light, Brennan walked towards the corner, not daring to breathe. When she was close enough, she reached out and poked its leg, startling it to life. Brennan pulled back, watching the actor struggle and moan and rattle chains against the door he was propped up against. Brennan waited for him to break free, to jump down and try to scare her, but minutes passed and nothing happened. And then . . .

And then she heard his voice.

Leaning forward with real fear around her throat, Brennan looked through the mask's eye holes, saw the eyes looking back at her. "Hello?" she asked. He moaned again.

Though she couldn't say it aloud, Brennan found the voice to be pathetic—a highly reduced, boiled away version of her partner, if this was her partner. Brennan swallowed fear. This version of Booth was unfamiliar to her.

She could recognize the shape of his body even in this muted light, the broad shoulders, the long, lean frame, the tight, hard muscles of his arms and calves. She almost wishes she hadn't; it hit her instantly that her partner was bound with chains, his face covered to hide him. Brennan was flooded by emotion—a slippery mix of anger and sorrow, and a desperate need to pull him into her arms.

Her heart raced as she blocked out the other sounds. "Booth?" she whispered again just as someone screamed, faint and far away. Brennan cleared her throat. She was right there, standing in front of the door. "Booth?" she repeated. "Booth? Seeley?"

It was impossible for her to read him—if it was him—through the mask. But why, if it was just another Halloween actor, was he not trying to scare her by rattling the chains as he'd done before?

"Booth?" she said louder. "It's me, Bones." The nickname, which she'd despised in the beginning, had grown on her—because it came from him. And only when it came from him. Brennan stuck her hand out, pressing her palm flat to his chest. The man stiffened; she could feel him shaking from fear or cold. Finally, he made a few muffled sounds, perhaps questions, cries. Brennan reached for the mask, lifting it carefully—until she saw it was her partner's face.

"Booth!" she yelped, watching him squint before his eyes widened. Recognition was slow; Brennan immediately estimated dehydration and a mild form of malnourishment.

He said her name through the gag, a few seconds before she got it out of his mouth. Without thinking, she threw herself against the door, overcome with a need to hug him. Booth gasped, but his relief was quickly outweighing any pain Brennan might unwittingly be causing him. "Bones?" he rasped hoarsely. "Is it you?"

"Of course it's me," Brennan spoke quickly. She felt dizzy with thrill. "We've been looking for you!" She made herself pull back when Booth didn't respond. She ran her hands down the chains, feeling how thick, tight and cold they were. There was no give; they were effectively holding Booth to the door. She had an uncharacteristic urge to pull on the chains herself, as if her adrenaline and effort alone would get him free.

"Booth?" she repeated, fiercely glad that he was right in front of her when she was saying his name. It was hard to tell in this light, but Booth looked significantly paler, sweaty. He smelled like sweat too, unclean, of dirt, body odor, urine and fear. Brennan didn't care about his odor, but she was struck at how red his lips were, cracked; his eyes staring back at her dully. She said his name again.

Booth nodded faintly. He was trying his best to work out if the Brennan before him was real, or if he was dreaming or fantasizing. But if he was asleep then why was he so tired? Her sharp voice calling him out brought him back around. Real or not, he had to . . . warn her.

"He-here," Booth whispered, trying to focus on Brennan, who had his chin cupped tightly in her hand. Her nails were ground into his four day stubble. The light was poor, but he guessed the look in her eyes meant for him to "Stay with her."

"What? Booth, what?"

"Theyarehere, stillhere," he slurred. "Intheh—"

He was grasping—gasping—for the word; it had an "h" sound; her brain guessed "house", the closest English language comparison that would make the most sense.

"Inthe_house_," he finished.

If she were familiar horror movies and slasher pictures, Temperance might get the irony of this statement, might even catch the humorless humor her partner was bestowing upon her. Except that he was telling her the truth. She hated that Booth was soaked with cold sweat, that everywhere she touched found his bare skin clammy. But he _must_ be dehydrated, he must be sick.

There was no way she could get him down herself; he was chained up tight. "Fourhere," he rasped.

"I don't know what that means," Brennan said automatically. "I need to get you help."

"Don't go," he whispered, pleading with her. He wriggled his gloved fingers in the dark, urging her to take his hand. "Don't go."

Brennan sighed, grasping his fingers. Truthfully, she was afraid to leave, afraid she wouldn't be able to find her way back. "I won't," she told him, squeezing his hand. Brennan reached for her phone, deciding to finally answer Angela's text. "What's this?" Brennan asked after she put the phone away. There was an unusual shape in Booth's glove, a hard, small object. Carefully, Brennan tugged the glove off, giving Booth's hand a quick squeeze before feeling inside the glove herself.

Brennan looked over the small object with disbelief and awe. Booth's gaze slid to it as she held it up. It was a key.


	18. Chapter 18: One More Look At The Ghost

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Quote at the beginning and later on is from Poe's song "Haunted". Don't own reference to _The Night Before Christmas_, Captain Jack Sparrow/_Pirates of the Caribbean_, the nursery rhyme poem _Jack and the Beanstalk_ or Aqua's song "Halloween" or Alvin Schwartz's _In a Dark, Dark Room and Old Scary Stories._

Author's Note: CONGRATULATIONS! You have finally arrived at the **last chapter**! That said, I _do_ have an **epilogue** to add that needs (OMG, I really hope so) only a little bit of fixing/adjusting. The majority of the epilogue is all set, so I'm going to say, tentatively, that the story will be complete before the end of this month.

THANK YOU so much to all my supporters, reviewers, readers and for the infinite patience and wonderful encouragement. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated.

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**Chapter Eighteen: One More Look At The Ghost Before I'm Gonna Make It Leave**

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"_Come here, no I won't say please_

_One more look at the ghost before_

_I'm gonna make it leave_

_Come here, I got the pieces here_

_Time to gather up those splinters_

_Build a casket for my tears."_

—Poe, "Haunted"

# # # # #

Quinn threaded his way back, clutching his side. Dr. Brennan's kick caught him off-guard; there had been enough power behind it to send him to the floor if he'd only been standing a few inches closer. But he thought he'd have to take it; he deserved any angry gestures she could dish out. Still, he wasn't ready to just give up; he could have, at any time, called the police—even on the first day when he walked in on Agent Booth dialing 911, he could have made it stop. But wasn't it too late by then? Wasn't it too late the second he raised the axe to Stan, or was it too late after the first blow?

A few days ago, he'd thought about running—but why hadn't he?

Because . . . because he'd been afraid, worried even, that if he bolted no one would look out for Agent Booth, that there could be a chance, however slim, that he might die . . . and Quinn didn't want that on his conscience.

A straggled laugh bubbled up into his throat, muffled by his clenched teeth and the mask he wore.

If Daisy knew half of what he'd done she would find a way to kill him herself—or she'd sic Billy on him, or maybe Mason, which would end badly for Mason. In the dark, Quinn paused. Why—or when—had he ever thought he had anything in common with these people, that they were his friends? They had pushed him to murder, made him an accessory to the kidnapping of a Federal Agent, and forced him to participate in scare tactics—pranks. No, he wasn't fooling himself; he enjoyed the pranks—wanted to do worse, in fact, and he hadn't been forced into anything, he just hadn't said no.

# # # # #

Booth's eyes were half-unfocused as he stared at Brennan, almost unable to believe she was standing in front of him, her brow knitted together in distress. "You found me," he whispered all as one word, his voice so thin it was barely more than a croak.

Brennan's phone beeped as she stared at the key, wondering if it really would open what she wanted it to: Booth's restraints.

_You found Booth?!_ Angela's text practically screamed. "Yes, didn't I say that?" Brennan asked the phone's screen without a trace of sarcasm. _We told Cam. Police, paramedics and FBI en route._

Brennan sighed with relief, turning to Booth to relay Angela's message. "Help is coming. We're going to get you out of here soon, Booth."

Booth nodded, only half hearing her. "You have to . . . watch out," he said after working his jaw, summoning up saliva to moisten his dry mouth. "They're four, they're dangerous, they wear masks," he continued in his broken voice, causing Brennan to lean in close enough to feel his breath on her face to hear him. "T-Rex, Wolfman, Alien, Dracula," he listed, and added, as an afterthought, "the alien . . . helped me. Gave me food, water."

Brennan's eyes widened. "T-Rex?" she repeated, recalling her recent encounter with Daisy Wick who had been wearing a similar mask.

Booth nodded, bobbing his head forward and back tiredly. "She . . . was on a cell phone . . . she said something . . . like . . . 'losing daylight, losing hope,'" Booth whispered, suddenly fixing Brennan with a scared look. "She wants . . . to have you to herself, Bones."

"Booth," Brennan shushed, still close to his face. She reached up and pressed her palm to his cheek. "That's not going to happen. She's going to prison and she's never going to hurt you again." Brennan stopped, realizing she had just made outlandish promises before all the evidence had been collected, before a case was made for her arrest, but she suddenly also realized she didn't want to take it back. Keeping her hand against his face, Brennan leaned forward and kissed Booth on the side of his mouth.

Booth winced, not from Brennan's affection but out of pain from his hardly healed split lip. He moved his gaze away from her for a few seconds, hating to look weak in front of her. He wanted more than anything to be free of the door, going home.

"What happened to you?" Brennan asked softly; she inspected her partner's face carefully with touch, finding bruises and cuts in too many places. Even as she asked, she knew some of it, what they had pieced together of his abduction, but Brennan needed to know how long he'd been kept here like this.

Booth grunted. "I—" He winced again, this time more visibly, and flexed his now gloveless hand. The effort of speaking, even so little, was starting to take its toll.

He couldn't tell her he knew their identities—that he could, by voice, pick each one out in a "line up"—via the masks they wore, but he wanted to tell her the things he'd figured out; he'd had so much time to think. But there was a violent pounding in his skull from his brief efforts to hold a conversation with her; his tongue was dry, sour, and now, more than ever, he wanted for escape.

He wanted . . . he wanted to lie flat, perhaps in a bed with blankets, wanted Brennan to cradle his head with her hands, speak to him in her often nonsensical scientific jargon way, wanted water so badly he would make himself vomit to get some. Booth's head spun, and he felt the sensation of tilting backwards—physically and physically—see what he did there? he mimed a chuckle, saw a flash of Brennan trying to smile for his benefit—impossible, tried to guess why it was happening as his heart picked up some extra beats. _Excitement?_ he thought dizzily. _Relief?_ It certainly wasn't fear; he recalled a similar cluster of emotions spiked with the pain that came with being abducted and tortured when Brennan and her wayward father Max Keenan had come to free him before. Except this was just a bit different. Booth licked his lips vigorously, unnerved by the lack of saliva on his tongue to moisten his cracked lips.

Brennan was going to cradle his head on her lap as he slept, make him drink water and talk him into the pleasures of a liquid diet, until he was ready for solid food again, like pie. He couldn't wait to sit across from her in a booth at the Royal Diner. Get to see her, face to face. Get to gaze at her face. He couldn't wait. It was going to be great. Rhymed. . . .

"Booth?!" Brennan's heart rate sped up. Even in the poor lighting, she had watched the whites of her partner's eyes appear as they rolled back in their sockets, and had again pressed herself as close to the door he was bound to so she could steady his head as he passed out. "Booth, please don't do this! Wake up!" She slapped his cheek, the one that looked least bruised, trying to get him to come around. Without warning, Brennan was flooded with fear.

She considered leaving to get help but quickly dismissed the idea. She had no idea where she was; she had followed writing on the floor and might not have even found this corner if she hadn't been fending off an attacker . . . who had pushed her in the right direction.

Brennan's lips parted as she went over this in her head, finding it strange, maybe too odd to be coincidence.

# # # # #

Sirens screamed over the spooky music and chatter, reaching them even in the basement. These sirens demanded attention, even before the booming voices of police officers did.

Two of them were being ordered out by name, to come out with their hands raised, or the police would enter in. As if they weren't already in.

"_Daisy Wick, Quinn Masters . . . This is the FBI . . . Special Agent Perotta . . ." _

Civilians were being ordered out as well, but Angela, Hodgins and Zach didn't budge. They clung to the walls, the shadows, as others, scared and smarter, made their way out. To the three, it sounded like a flood or a stampede; it was chaos, with only one exit out—back up the stairs.

"There must be other exits, side doors," Angela rationalized, watching the throng of bodies thin. She considered the huge crowd vying for the stairs, and hoped that no one was getting trampled. "The haunted house should be up to code since it's such a popular attraction."

"If there are other ways out, the police or FBI will find them and break them down," Hodgins replied, squeezing Angela's hand. "We need to find Brennan and Booth."

"She says she doesn't know where they are," Angela read from the texts she'd received. They stood in a shallow alcove, huddled together.

"But Vincent Nigel-Murray might," Zach said, pushing up his Jack Skellington mask. Last night, he'd visited this attraction and had recognized Daisy and Quinn, neither who had been wearing masks or costumes. They had exchanged pleasantries at the entrance, with Vincent asking mostly innocent questions.

"_You help out with this haunted house too, Daisy?" Vincent asked, in awe, his arm around his girlfriend. "You and Quinn?"_

"_It's killer, isn't it?" Daisy bragged back, winking. _

"_We've already come through twice last week and I'm still leery about going in," Vincent confessed. "Something always jumps out at me that I least expect!"_

_Daisy squealed. "I know, isn't that awesome?! My boyfriend Mason and our good friend Billy are all involved too. Ever since high school, when Stan asked for volunteers, we just couldn't say no! Every year we work hard to make it scarier than the last. It doesn't even feel like work, it's so fun." _

"_Yeah, and ever since high school ended, Stan would _never_ let us say no," Quinn added, though there was a faint smile on his face. Eerie, Vincent had said, but it may have been due to the low light._

"All we need to do is just keep going," Zach said.

Angela shook her head. "Our landmarks have evacuated," meaning the "monsters" throughout the tour that Vincent had mentioned. Then she shrugged. "But maybe . . . we can find our way just by the empty sites."

Jack lifted his mask, but Angela pushed it back down. "We can't be undisguised, not yet. You too, Jack Skellington."

Zach grunted, but did as she asked. "It's a little scary to think that they are still in here, people we don't even know. People that want to hurt us and have already done it once."

"We do know Quinn Masters, or so we thought we did," Hodgins said. The trio started to walk, staying close in the dark.

"We didn't know him," Zach countered. "And now we don't know what he's supposed to look like in here." He trailed a few steps behind Angela and Hodgins. "We don't know if he was the one who poured the motor oil on the sidewalk, or sent the roses, or the"—he rolled his shoulders in a stiff shudder—"spider, or if was driving that car that tried to run you down, Hodgins."

"_Or if he egged my car!"_ Cam's crackly voice startled all of them, and they momentarily paused.

"Are you here, Cam?" Angela asked. She hoped Cam wouldn't order them to get out.

"_No, I'm still at the lab,"_ their boss answered. _"Please don't tell me you're still inside."_

Hodgins nudged Angela, then cleared his throat. "Okay, we _won't_ say anything . . ."

"Cam, Brennan's text said Booth is _chained_ to a door!" Angela explained. "We need to help—"

"_You are scientists—or artists—not paramedics, or rescue specialists,"_ Cam scolded. _"It's too dangerous for you to stay. You don't even have weapons." _

"Yeah, let's leave it to the professionals," Hodgins mocked between his teeth. "These are our friends." Angela put a finger to her lips.

"_If you stay, you could very well compromise the investigation—and the rescue. Not to mention the arrests."_

Angela turned the volume on her communicator way down and motioned the other two do the same. "What do you want to do?" she whispered to the other two, glancing from mask to mask. Right now, thanks to Vincent, they had circumstantial evidence that Quinn Masters, Daisy Wick, Mason T. Corral and William "Billy" Wednesday were connected to the haunted house and thus likely, Stan's murder, the pranks and Booth's abduction. Quinn Masters had also apparently given them "clues" in his interview about a haunted house, but hadn't offered anything so direct that this was the right place to be looking in.

But obviously, it was.

"Cam said," Zach began in a low voice. Angela held up her hand to stop him. "Jack?"

Hodgins paused, then said, "Jack Sparrow thinks we should forge ahead." He reached into his pocket and handed Angela a small object no bigger than her hand. "It's a mini stun gun," he explained. "Top of the line."

"Top of the line of mini stun guns?" Angela repeated slowly, looking it over. She pursed her rag doll lips. "Hmm. I'm armed."

"Where's mine?" Zach asked, sounding miffed.

"You don't get one. You want to do what Cam says." Hodgins was gruff.

"She does make a good point!" Zach threw back.

"Here, Sweetie, you can have my pepper spray," Angela soothed, handing it to him. He stood holding it, his arm raised, but he didn't move or say a word.

"You give your pepper spray to _him_?" Hodgins asked, sounding like he was frowning.

"Don't worry, hun, I'll protect you. My stun gun is top of the line." Angela grabbed his hand and they started forward. Dejectedly, Zach followed. "I'm only doing this because of Dr. Brennan," he said quietly. "Though she'd probably be angry that we didn't listen to Dr. Saroyan."

_# # # # #_

Amid the leaving crowds, Daisy pushed through them, against the flow. She was out of breath when she reached Mason and Billy, holed up outside the fake jail cell where Frankenstein's monster had broken out. Billy, still wearing his monster makeup, had his arms crossed over his barrel chest.

"Falling apart!" Daisy shrieked, shoving the mask up on her face. "It's all . . . falling apart!" She flailed and her ponytail shook at the back of her head. Mason reached for her and she screamed again, jumping out of his grasp.

"What do we do?" Mason asked. He was still wearing his Wolfman mask.

"RUN! RUN!" Daisy shrieked over the music, which had just hiked an octave, as if someone above them was playing with the volume. She clasped her gloved hands against ears. "GET OUT! They're coming!"

"They're not coming, they're already here!" Billy yelled in her face. "How the hell did they find us?"

"Dr. Brennan is here, I saw her," Daisy stated. For a few seconds, she looked composed, as if she could regain control of this whole thing. "We had a conversation."

"She's not the only one." Billy shoved Daisy. "I saw Angela Montenegro! She's painted up like a doll. I almost got a good swipe at her when she passed by the bars but she moved too fast."

"A little girl, she moved too fast?" Daisy screamed, causing Billy to take a step back. Her voice rose in the sudden silence—the music was off. "This from the guy who carried a well-built, unconscious Fed out of a building on his shoulders?"

"Shut your goddamned mouth!"

"DON'T TELL ME—"

"Quinn?" Mason's voice rose in surprise, seeing their fourth sprint up. "Where have you been?"

Quinn ignored him, choosing instead to break up the fight. "What the hell are you still doing here? Do you _want_ to get arrested? There's hardly any time left!"

Daisy sniffed. "I'm not leaving."

"WHAT?!" the three guys yelled collectively.

"Dr. Brennan is here," Daisy stated again, as if this explained everything.

Quinn gritted his teeth. "Dr. Brennan found Agent Booth! Where do you think I was?" He turned and glared at Mason until he sheepishly lifted his mask. "I was following her, trying to stop her!"

Daisy's mouth dropped open in shock. "She found him? She actually . . ." She screamed in anguish. "NO! Dr. Brennan is supposed to be mine!" She swayed unsteadily.

"What did you think was going to happen?" Quinn sneered. He grabbed her shoulder. "That she wouldn't figure it out? That she wouldn't move heaven and earth to get him back?" Then, "You must have seen the way she looks at him. The way he looks at her."

Daisy started to pout like a child who was just told she would have to go to bed without dessert.

"Come on, Daisy! I know that, deep down, you're not this stupid!"

Daisy shook herself free and started running away through the semi-dark. Mason, who had been cowardly silent through all the arguing, sprinted after her, at her heels; he had to be, otherwise, they would surely be separated. She was running like a devil was chasing her, was about to drag her into hell.

"Finally!" Quinn muttered, watching Billy lumber after them. He followed, but at a much slower pace. In spite of what he'd just insisted, he knew it was over. They were surrounded, and there was only one way out. And in.

They ran around corners and down hallways, all of them knowing the way in the dark, until Billy yelled, "What the hell? Shit! Oh, shit! Turn around!"

Quinn saw them whirl to face him and run back towards the way they'd come. There was a sudden pounding in his blood—his friends' faces were written with fear. It was exciting, just one last time. They were about to be caught.

Quinn didn't move quick enough; Billy and Mason darted by him and Daisy, as close to Mason's heels as he'd been at hers, raked her nails across Quinn's cheek.

Daisy grabbed his collar and pulled him with her; by her momentum, he moved, stumbling after her. His cheek burned. Pushing him ahead of her, Daisy kicked him with her steel toed boot.

Quinn grunted and cursed, going down. He barely missed being stepped on, pulling his hand out of the way with half a second to spare. With Billy and Mason ahead of her, Daisy bent down over him. "How the hell did you know it was her?" she snarled, spitting on his face.

"You're crazy," Quinn shot back. It felt good to actually say it to her, after all this time.

"She was wearing a mask, a costume! How did you know?"

"You better run, they're going to get you," Quinn hissed, climbing to his feet. The back of his knee throbbed where she had landed the blow, but he wasn't much worried about running now.

"Daisy! Come the fuck on!" Mason demanded from somewhere in front of them. He had come back, close enough so that they could make out the glint of light on his eyes.

"Bet you never thought you'd 'be the fearsome one at Junior High Tonight,' did you?" Quinn mocked her, paraphrasing Aqua's _Halloween_ lyrics.

With another cry, Daisy lunged at him, slapping him across the face. Quinn shoved her away and she almost fell.

"DAISY!" Mason rushed forward to grab her. He pulled her away without another glance at Quinn.

Quinn brushed his fingers across his nose and cheek, both which were bleeding. Like an injured but unstoppable monster in any horror film, he went in pursuit of those who had been stupid enough to try to escape him.

# # # # #

"I think we're lost," Angela told Brennan via cell phone. Without the actors or tour groups, the building resembled any other dank basement. "Who knew this place was like the Winchester Mystery House in the dark?"

"_I don't know what that means,"_ Brennan replied, sounding far away. Their connection wasn't very good, but Angela thought it didn't help that Booth was still unconscious.

"Vincent, he knew," Hodgins grumbled. "We should have brought him."

"And that wouldn't have been suspicious?" Angela raised an eyebrow. Hodgins shrugged.

"_Have you encountered any of the glowing writing on the floor yet?"_

"No, but I think we might have bypassed it. I literally have no idea where we are."

"I do," Zach said. "We're in this house."

Hodgins shook his head. "Wrong answer." They stopped in front of a doorway leading to a dimly lit room. He stuck his head in but couldn't make anything out. "In a dark, dark room," he began. "That's all I remember, actually. I _can_ recite the stories about the guys with the long teeth and the one with Jenny, who always wore the green ribbon around her neck."

"What are you talking about, Jack?" Angela said, joining him in the doorway.

"_In a Dark, Dark Room and Other Scary Stories_," Hodgins explained. "Alvin Schwartz. It's a classic children's book from the 80s."

"How do you know it? You weren't a child of the 80s," Angela teased.

"_I can hear echoes,"_ Brennan suddenly cut in. _"I think . . . are you close by?"_ She was silent for a few moments. _"Footsteps. Is it you?"_

Angela felt uneasy. "We're stopped by an open doorway, Sweetie."

"_They're getting closer."_

Angela and Hodgins exchanged a glance, which Angela found ridiculous because Hodgins still had the mask on. They took hands and entered the room.

"Oh, we're going in there?" Zach grumbled behind them.

They moved slowly, in case there were unseen obstructions on the floor. When Zach's foot kicked something, he started.

"What is it?" Hodgins hissed.

Gritting his teeth, Zach squatted down and reached out for it. It hadn't felt large, but rattled across the floor nonetheless. His hand closed around it and he showed it to the others.

"It . . . it sort of looks like my pepper spray, it's the same size and shape," Angela said. "Did you drop it?"

"No." Zach felt the pocket he'd put small canister in. Still there.

"_I dropped mine when I was fending off an attacker,"_ Brennan said, her echoey voice making them all jump. _"You're close to me. . . . But someone else is closer." _Abruptly, the line went dead.

# # # # #

"This way!" Mason yanked Daisy in the direction of Billy's thudding footsteps. He was headed towards a side door, one Stan had boarded up to deter break-ins or frightened patrons from trying to get out. He'd always wanted patrons to get their money's worth.

In the hallway where the path split in two, Daisy wrenched her arm away. It would take time for Billy to break down that door, if he could, and she wanted one last look. She scrambled out of Mason's grasp towards the path that went left, her ponytail swinging as she ran.

"What the hell, there isn't any—" A memory struck him of Daisy, two days ago, emerging from the basement where she'd spent time alone with the trussed up Fed. What was she doing, going to give him a kiss goodbye? His fuse of anger was too short; a blast of cold reminded him of his retaliation against her. The key. He'd given the Fed the key to the chains.

With a growl, Mason ran after her.

# # # # #

Brennan moved to put herself between Booth and the door, and whatever might be coming through it. She had stopped hearing any music or screams or laughter or other "Halloween" sounding noises, like screechy cats or creaky doors, and couldn't help but wonder how close the police or FBI or paramedics were to finding them. Booth needed to get out of here. When she had first found Booth and removed his gag, he'd slurred that "They were still in the house", but Brennan hadn't much considered they could come back. Just a little while ago, he'd told her there were four of them, they wore masks and they were dangerous.

Brennan didn't care if there were ten and they were armed with machetes. She was going to do whatever she had to do get Booth out of here safe. Pulling out her phone, she dialed 911 and then set the phone on the floor. One way or another, they were getting found.

She tensed and got in a karate stance as the footsteps thudded closer, on top of her. Daisy's eyes flashed as she flew in through the open doorway, stopping just out of reach. After a few seconds, she grinned. "Dr. Brennan! It's so good to see you again, even better without our masks, don't you think?"

Temperance ignored Daisy's saccharine sweet praises. "Ms. Wick, it's over. You're going to jail and I'm going to make sure you never get out."

"You don't mean that," Daisy insisted. "We're together, and that's all that matters."

"What matters is that you're guilty. You abducted my partner and kept him in captivity and beat him up. You and three others, who all wore masks."

Daisy's mouth wrinkled in anger.

"You attacked my friends at the Jeffersonian. You taunted me, threatened me, hurt me."

"Did I, really? Did I hurt you?" Daisy's eyes filled with tears, but she smiled. "What hurt the most? Watching all your friends be pranked or losing your partner to me? Knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it or fix it? Knowing I had all the power over you?"

"I hear Dr. Brennan!" Zach whispered from behind Angela and Jack. He pointed in a direction where he thought her voice was coming from. They had left the room and backtracked, trying to find Brennan, but it seemed they were lost again. "She might be behind this wall."

"This is why you should choose me over your Special Agent, Dr. Brennan!" Daisy raved, making a gesture towards Booth. "I'm the one with all the power. You should have known that and picked me for your assistant instead of Clark! I'm the one for you! I'm your soul mate!"

"You are not in your right mind, if you even have a right mind!" Temperance yelled back. Behind her, Booth was beginning to stir, the sharp, angry voices piercing his unwilling sleep. "I chose the person most qualified, intelligent and perspicacious in the absence of Dr. Addy, Ms. Wick."

Angela pushed forward, ahead of Zach, feeling her way along the wall. They were so close, but Brennan was no longer answering her cell. She led the way around the hallway or room, her breathing shallow.

A hand swung out from a corner and clamped itself over Hodgins' mouth, pushing the mask up and yanking the scientist off balance, backwards into the dark. Hodgins' pulse pounded; he thought he'd been aware, but he must have dropped his guard. _Angela!_ His heart pounded harder, and he reached for the hand on his mouth. His attacker slipped an arm around his neck.

_This might be one of the pranksters,_ he thought hurriedly, preparing his elbow to knock into his attacker's ribs. Wherever he was going, Hodgins didn't want to go with him.

"_Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of a crazy one!" _

Somewhere behind them roared the gravelly voice, one that made even Hodgins' captor freeze. Taking the opportunity, he threw his weight against his captor, hitting with elbows and writhing as if in pain. He felt the arms loosening, but his captor wasn't ready to let go.

_No way, they tried to run me over, they're not getting the best of me again! _Hodgins let his muscles go slack so that he turned into dead weight in his captor's arms.

"_Be she live or be she dead, I'll grind her bones to make my bread!" _

The voice was closer, almost on their necks. With a whoosh of air, Hodgins was released. He slipped to the floor but scrambled away and got back to his feet. He was lightheaded but determined to get a good look at his captor and keep him in his sights in case he tried to attack again. He blinked rapidly. No one was in his sights. "Angela!" Hodgins yelled, discarding his mask. "Angela!"

Brennan froze, hearing Hodgins' shaky voice nearby. Even Daisy whipped around to get a good look. Brennan advanced on her, not caring that Daisy's back was turned. This had long ago stopped being a fair fight.

# # # # #

Quinn lay facedown on his stomach, with Mason right next to him. Mason had a black eye, and was scowling at Quinn, but Quinn was trying not gloat, trying to look reserved as they were both handcuffed and dragged to their feet. Still, they endured the flashlight beams in their eyes, and the angry reading of Miranda Rights.

Daisy was also handcuffed, but she needed more help getting up; Quinn thought it was unfortunate Dr. Brennan's roundhouse kick hadn't knocked her out. She lay on the floor, moaning, her mouth soaked with blood.

"End of the line," Perotta was saying as they were walked out.

Quinn thought about it, still bearing the trace of a smile on his lips, as they were led out through the exit in the side door the police had kicked in. It really was over.

It had been, if he was honest, one of his most favorite Halloweens.

# # # # #

_NOVEMBER_

"_Don't cry_

_There's always a way_

_Here in November_

_In this House of Leaves _

_We'll pray_

_Please, I know it's hard to believe_

_To see a perfect forest_

_Through so many splintered trees."_

—Poe, "Haunted"

# # #

"Bones," Booth rasped, reaching out to her, using his spare arm to gather under his back, push him upright. The hospital bed was too soft, the pillow without fluff, it was stiff but empty as well; it offered little support. Or perhaps it was his weakened state, his aching muscles, his sore back; something protested but he ignored it as best he could. "Bones," he repeated, catching her sleeve as if she were on her way out. She stood motionless next to his bed, looking him over from head to toe, her eyes wet but she wasn't crying.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice low. His fingers found their way around hers.

"You need to help me," he told her. He kept pushing back, rocking himself up to a full sitting position.

"You want to sit up?" Temperance asked, misunderstanding. Without letting go of his hand, she reached for the remote which controlled the bed's positioning.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No, forget that, Bones. You need to help me go."

Her lips parted; Booth intercepted quicker this time, explaining that he wasn't trying to get himself to the bathroom. "I need to leave. Parker. Parker's waiting for me."

"Parker?" Brennan repeated dumbly.

"It's Halloween, Bones. I'm supposed to . . . it's my turn . . . trick-or-treating." Why was sitting up such an effort? He found it ridiculous they wanted to keep him overnight for observation. Booth hadn't realized he'd mumbled this aloud until Brennan countered him.

"I don't think it was a ridiculous 'suggestion' at all," she declared. "You're dehydrated, like it or not, and you're weak from little to no nourishment, and—" She backed off with her observations, and took to staring at him again with wide eyes. He was pale and cut up, bruised, but bandaged, not in much pain (he'd claimed) but being treated with a fluid IV and painkillers. "How long were you chained to that door?" Brennan asked suddenly, her voice so soft Booth froze. He'd almost forgotten, in the moments when he considered only his son's disappointment at not having his father present for Halloween, that he'd just been—this night—freed from criminals.

"I—I—" Time had made little sense in the dark, especially when he'd fought the panic as strange as he'd felt the afternoon of his abduction. "A day? Maybe two? They . . . I was somewhere before that."

"Where?"

"A . . . house." He rolled his shoulders; they were tight for many reasons. "I was handcuffed to a dresser, something. Listen, I don't have time for to explain. He's waiting for me." They were still holding hands. Booth squeezed hers. "Help me, will you?" He squinted at her, then cracked a smile. "I mean, help me again."

"Can you even stand?" She said it not unkindly, just practically, remembering the team effort to get him down from the door, how he'd slid too fast, how his feet rocked at the edge and his knees buckled almost immediately once he was slanted upright. Everyone had had arms around him, keeping him from falling too far. "We've got you," Hodgins had told him. Angela had chimed in with, "Are you all right, Booth?"

He hadn't been able to speak then, not above a whisper. He'd simply nodded at all of them, tried to ignore the way their faces hit the darkness. They were all wearing masks pushed back on their heads, costumes, but they were one second individuals and the next a massive blur. "Got them?" he'd asked. Their heads tilted in. Brennan's mouth was against his ear. "We did." He felt safe against her; her arm was snaked around his back.

"We can go together," Booth said now. "You and me and Parker, we can go to each house, we can—" Booth fought dizziness as he leaned, unwillingly, against the pillows. It was much softer than he'd remembered, but firm enough in the center to hold his head in place. He looked at her. "Will you go, Bones?" he whispered. "Go with Parker, and his mother?"

Brennan could no more imagine supervising Parker's Halloween adventures with Rebecca than she could with Booth in the state he was in now. She would do it, if Booth wanted it, but she had to tell him it was too late. Firmly, she shook her head.

Booth looked crestfallen, like a child denied a night full of candy and glee. "Why not?" He still hadn't released her hand.

"Booth, I can't—we can't—it's November. November first."

"November?" Booth repeated. He turned the word over in his mind until it finally dawned on him that he'd missed participating by mere hours. "Was I asleep?" he asked her, frowning. "You should have woken me up, Bones!" He finally let go, slapping both hands against the bed in anger and frustration.

Brennan rubbed her palms together, discreetly enjoying the warmth Booth had left on her skin. She didn't reply to Booth's childish outburst, understanding at some level that he was not really angry with her. Truthfully, she didn't want to tell him he'd spent the remainder of Halloween in and out of consciousness, rambling and struggling so much on the trip to the ambulance that he'd been immediately sedated. It didn't knock him out completely, and when he was able he demanded and pleaded that she stay by his side. Brennan wondered if he remembered that. Finally she asked quietly, "Are you angry at me?"

Booth didn't say a word, staring at the ceiling. She wondered what he was seeing.

_I missed the light,_ he thought, stealing a discreet glance at Bones. _And I missed the night. _He growled under his breath. Parker was a little boy. He wasn't going to understand why his daddy broke his promise on one of the most special nights of the year for children. He hoped to God that Rebecca hadn't told Parker a thing—the truth anyway—as to why he was a no-show. He was even afraid to consider what hysteria Parker could go into if he found out his daddy had been hurt. He didn't want Halloween scarred forever for his little boy.

"Then I suppose I can't change your mind," Brennan said. "But it doesn't bother me." Booth flicked his eyes to her. "You're going to stay in that bed until you're cleared to leave." She looked over her shoulder, took a few paces towards the door and hooked her arm around a chair. She pulled it up next to Booth's bed and sat down, resting one arm on the bed's railing.

"I'm going to stay in this bed?" he repeated, incredulous.

"That's right," Brennan said with a firm nod.

"And you?"

"I'm going to stay in this chair."

In spite of himself, Booth's cracked lips split into a grin.

Brennan didn't dare remind him that Booth had raved about Parker while he'd been strapped to the gurney, pleading to see him, pleading for Parker not to see him this way.

"Parker's fine, Seeley," Perotta had told him then, patting his shoulder until it sunk in. Or until he lost consciousness. She would know, since she had called Rebecca to give her and Parker the news. They had come to the hospital and visited while Seeley slept, after being bandaged up and drugged heavily. Before going into the room, Brennan prepared them, and was uncharacteristically tender with Parker, telling him in hushed tones that while Booth might not look so good, he was tough and strong and was going to get better.

"He will?" the little boy asked, his eyes wide enough to pop. There was still a smudge of black makeup in his hair; no doubt his mother had opted for normalcy and taken him trick-or-treating much earlier that night.

"Yes," Brennan confirmed without hesitation. She watched them go in, feeling a stronger version of faint relief that had come over her when she saw Booth's face. The days leading up to it had been rocky and terrifying but Halloween itself turned out to be a good one; the game was finished, all four pranksters were caught—arrested and charged, and her team and Booth were finally safe and home.


	19. Epilogue: We Are Both Common People

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Quote at beginning of the chapter is from lyrics to Tegan and Sara's song "Walking With A Ghost".

Author's Note: Five years, four months and a few days later, this story is **FINALLY COMPLETE**. THANK YOU to everyone who has read, reviewed and overall enjoyed this Halloween Bones Team/B&B story. Much thanks to all those who encouraged me to continue over the years, especially when it seemed the story would never find its conclusion.

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading! Enjoy the epilogue! :D

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**Epilogue: We Are Both Common People, Sharing The Same Combination, It's Lethal**

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"_No matter which way you go_

_No matter which way you stay_

_You're out of my mind_

_Out of my mind_

_Out of my mind_

_I was walking with a ghost."_

—Tegan and Sara, "Walking With A Ghost"

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# # # # #

In the dark hours between the end of October and the beginning of November, following Booth's arrival and treatment at the hospital, and after Rebecca and Parker showed up to check on him, Brennan, unable to stay by Booth's bedside, found her way back to the Jeffersonian. Even there, she was restless, just as restless as she would have been sitting in a chair next to her incoherent, dehydrated, beaten, bruised, but rescued and still living partner.

The building had been darker and more quiet than she'd expected; but then, maybe the others had just wanted to go home, or wait their turns to look in on Booth.

Brennan went to her office and turned on the desk light. Before sliding into the chair, she ripped the cape from her neck, watching it flutter to floor. She knew so little about Halloween customs, but wondered if the holiday was supposed to feel this surreal at the end of the night. It did feel good, to know she had "won", in a way, that after finding the taunting "ransom" note here at her desk less than a week ago, it was finally finished.

Finished or not, she was still on edge. Jittery, Brennan stood up and began to pace. She knew she shouldn't be alone here, that she should make herself go home, but she was still replaying the conversations she and Daisy Wick had had that night—well, on Halloween. Yesterday. About an hour ago.

Brennan's cell phone rang. She pulled it out insistently, expecting bad news. "Hello?"

"_Dr. Brennan? This is Special Agent Perotta."_

"Agent Perotta? What's happened?" Brennan asked worriedly. A million possibilities streamed through her mind in the seconds it took Agent Perotta to respond. "Is it Booth?"

"_Nothing, Dr. Brennan. No, Agent Booth is fine. I'm calling because I need your help."_

"Mine?" Brennan rocked back on her heels.

"_I'm interrogating Ms. Wick, but I've hit a wall. She's demanding she speak with you."_

"Or what?" Brennan wrinkled her nose. She hadn't lost her urge for violence towards the young intern-turned-criminal. "She's going to press charges against me?"

Agent Perotta chuckled. _"Believe me, I don't think that's crossed her mind. She wants one last hurrah with you—or she won't confess. Now, in this case we hardly need her confession—since we have recorded evidence from the 911 operator you called when you were waiting for help in the haunted house. Ms. Wick already admitted to enough on tape to keep her in jail for years, but I would honestly like to take something more solid to court. Her words, on paper, forever binding."_

Brennan opened her mouth to contest the use of "forever", but she stopped herself, knowing the context Perotta meant. Forever was long enough, forever could mean life or death. Either way, Perotta wanted Daisy to never, ever get out. Brennan sighed with relief. "I'll be right there."

After hanging up, Brennan opened her desk drawers, thinking that she could take Daisy's gruesome verse of what was going to happen to Booth if she couldn't find him in time, but remembered only after she had looked through two that she had handed over the note to her team. Shuffling papers, Brennan pushed them back into their respective drawers, and turned off her light. _This one's for you, Booth,_ she thought.

# # # # #

Daisy's chin rested on her propped up hands, her eyes round. She looked up at Dr. Brennan, impressed by the war of emotion _she_ had brought to Dr. Brennan's face. Dr. Brennan was struggling for her composure, trying to keep this interrogation professional, when she shouldn't be in the same room with no restraints on her own behavior with the mastermind behind the crimes which targeted her and her people. Yet here she was. Daisy worked to hide her glow of pride, drinking in Dr. Brennan's undivided attention.

This was the moment she had been waiting for: one on one time with her hero, her mentor, the one person she strove to be just like. It took everything in her not to grin. _This is so perfect,_ Daisy thought dreamily. _So perfect._

Brennan gritted her teeth; she had already done five minutes of silence in the FBI's interrogation room with Daisy Wick, with Agent Perotta monitoring from the observation room. She had let the young intern look her over while she focused on the nasty bruise covering half Ms. Wick's face—EMTs had cleared her straight into custody; it was sort of a shame she didn't have an concussion, Brennan thought. When she'd first arrived, she had started asking questions, then making statements, quoting word for word what Daisy had said to her in the bowels of the haunted house, but Daisy hadn't said a word to confirm or deny a thing.

"If you have nothing to say," Temperance said finally, "I'd like to be going." She got to her feet.

"Oh," Daisy squeaked, as if on cue, her eyes following Brennan. "I may be quiet now, but my hearing is perfect. Sometimes, I'm so full of rage I can hardly speak."

"Why did you do this?" Brennan demanded, resisting an urge to smack the metal table in front of her.

Daisy looked back smugly. "It's because I admire you, Dr. Brennan." Daisy examined her nails, still caked with Quinn's blood, and then continued. "And because I loathe you."

"How can you both admire and loathe me?" she asked, still standing, peering down at the young woman in the chair.

"You are my idol, you see," Daisy said dreamily, looking up at Brennan with a shine in her eyes. But then she frowned, creases appearing on her small face. For a moment she seemed like she might cry, but it passed. "All I wanted was to be your right hand, your follower and needful assistant." She sat forward, propping her head up on her hands again. "I was certain my day had come when Dr. Addy chose to leave to be a forensic consultant in Iraq. I knew you were going to pick me to be your new assistant." Daisy was thoughtful, staring off into space.

"I _didn't_ choose you as Zach's replacement," Dr. Brennan countered.

Daisy threw back her chair. "That's exactly right!" Tears had come into her voice and she wiped at her eyes with fists like a child. "You _didn't_ choose me! _I_ was supposed to be the forensic student your mind went right to, but you didn't even consider me! Instead, you picked up that drab Clark Edison, not that I have a thing against him—"

"That's not true, I did consider you," Dr. Brennan began, her brow furrowed, but Daisy interrupted her.

"No! You didn't even _think_ of me! We're supposed to be together, Dr. Brennan!" She jumped to her feet but didn't make to approach.

"Sit down, Ms. Wick," Agent Perotta's voice boomed over the speaker.

Without protest, Daisy sank back into her chair.

"Why go after anyone else if your concerns were only for the way I handled you?" Brennan asked. She was a little annoyed to hear Daisy sobbing the same things she had while they were in the haunted house together, but these were the things that Agent Perotta needed to hear.

"Because . . . _hic_ . . . I . . . _hic hic_ . . . I . . . _sniff_ . . ." Daisy dropped her hands, her face red. She looked Brennan in the eyes and said, point blank, "I wanted you to hurt. I didn't _want_ to actually _hurt_ _you_—Not physically—"

"Is that why the 'prank' you chose for me was so minor?" Brennan interrupted.

Daisy nodded, and then smiled brightly, but her tears were real enough, still dripping. Her moods changed so fast, Brennan noted with distaste. "My favorite part was when I sent my crew after your partner. Billy was the one who carried him out of Stan's house like a baby." Her eyes bore into Brennan's. "They all listen to me, whatever I say. Quinn even listened when I—" She scowled. "He _did_ listen to me. He used to. He stopped Stan like I said."

"You instructed Quinn Masters to kill Stan Carlson?" Brennan asked quietly, wondering if Daisy was lying, trying to get attention. Still . . . if she had gotten one of them to abduct her partner, as well as go along with all the pranks and hold an FBI agent hostage, couldn't it more than possible her influence could have enticed Quinn Masters into murder? She sat down in her chair again, wondering over her morbid curiosity—could she get Daisy to confess to more?

"I told him to take care of Stan, whatever it took. Stan wasn't that savvy but he was about to find out where his missing spider went. And he'd find out it had been injected with poison, and that it had almost killed Zach Addy." Daisy blew out a breath. "Of course, Stan didn't know who Zach Addy was. The significance of the whole act would have been lost on him. But after it was done, I had Quinn. He couldn't do anything without condemning himself to death."

Brennan stared at her, amazed by how casual she had stated this, as if committing crimes of any kind meant absolutely nothing to her, from misdemeanors to murder. She felt ill learning the spider was sent to Zach with the intent to kill him.

Apparently, her blackmail had done little to deter Quinn Masters from developing a conscience. "He still turned on you," Brennan told her with measured speech. "Do you know he told us about your haunted house?" She watched Daisy clench her fists and leaned forward. "Do you know he led me to finding Booth down there in the dark?" She paused. "Do you know that Booth told me someone in an alien mask gave him water—"

Daisy shrieked, pounding her fists on the table. She was furious Dr. Brennan had stolen her thunder and was determined to get back in control, even as her voice rose to an erratic pitch. "Do you know why I did it? Do you really know why? _He_ gets to spend so much time with you. _He_ gets to appreciate all your wisdom. _He_ gets to enjoy your smile." Her frown deepened. "I also hate it that he makes you laugh—you shouldn't be happy while I'm sad."

Brennan gritted her teeth again, her voice no more than a hiss. "How dare you."

"I loved watching you all frantic," Daisy went on, smiling and dreamy again, "running about, having no idea what was happening. Priceless, really. I wanted to help you—I was always there, you know." Her eyes shone. "But you never noticed me."

Brennan's mouth was set in line; she glanced at the mirror out of the corner of her eye.

"Billy said he put up quite a fight," Daisy said with awe. She sighed. "Did you know, if you hadn't been smart enough to break my little code, I wasn't going to kill him. No. I was going to keep him."

"What?" Brennan growled, jerking her head towards the intern.

"Your partner," Daisy said, as if she needed to clarify it. "Booth." She spoke his name slowly as if puckering a kiss. Then she cackled. "It would have been so delicious! We could have kept playing and—"

"You had Booth abducted just so you could prove, to yourself, how _intelligent_ you considered me?" Brennan said incredulously, her voice rising. "That was very stupid! Not intelligent!"

Daisy smiled big again, pretending she hadn't heard the last scolding. "No, no, the proof was not just for me! It was for everyone! Especially my friends, who almost didn't go ahead with all my plans. And especially for your friends, who hold you in such high esteem! I had to do something that would make you into the big hero. And then everyone would appreciate you the way I do. But first, I wanted to hurt you, and to do that best, I had to have my friends terrify yours. And your Seeley, well, wasn't that a nice surprise? What would you have done if I did keep him?"

Brennan leaned across the table and slapped Daisy's face. She couldn't help herself; her anger had completely taken over. She felt suddenly and irrationally protective of her friends, including Booth, and she despised this young woman for what she did. "You're not above the law," Brennan sputtered. "You can't just come into peoples' lives, take whatever you want!" She had started to yell. She didn't even hear the door to the room open, or see Perrotta standing there until after Daisy smiled, holding her cheek, whispered, "Scared you, didn't I?"

"Dr. Brennan, I can take it from here," Perotta encouraged, making a small gesture towards the door.

Perotta watched the forensic anthropologist stare with hostility at her former, fallen intern. Daisy Wick grinned boldly, as if she'd received the right rise out of Dr. Brennan that she had been hoping for.

"Dr. Brennan?"

"I'm done with her," Temperance said. She stood and turned her back on Daisy, nodding once at Agent Perotta. She didn't see the smile break off Daisy's face.

"Where are you going?" Daisy shrieked suddenly, standing up so fast her chair tipped over.

"Ms. Wick, sit down!" Perrotta warned, slapping the table.

"Dr. Brennan, we're not done! We _can't_ be done!"

Temperance noted that Daisy sounded horrified, but made no further comment or acknowledgment. It was a relief to leave the room, leave Daisy and her mad logic and creepy adoration.

"Sit down, NOW!" Perrotta nearly yelled. "Dr. Brennan may be done with you, but I am _not even close_."

Outside, Brennan smiled to herself. Daisy was in good hands.

# # # # #

It wasn't too long after, just a handful of days into November, that Brennan discovered Daisy Wick's letter in one of her desk drawers. Written as personal and intimate as it was, she almost considered keeping it private, unknown, because doing so would make the young intern-turned-psychopath suffer all the more. But it was evidence—more damning evidence for the prosecution to take to trial.

Temperance made a copy of the letter before really weighing the pros and cons of keeping such a piece of paper around—practically a devotion, or a love letter, exalting her as some high infinite being, a god, the true Queen of Death. She hadn't wanted to ever see the hastily scribed verse or the individual notes given to each of them again, but this . . . this was different.

It was a reminder that someone dangerous loved her genius even more than she did. And because of this, her friends had been made to suffer. Only out of rational thought, scientific deduction and simple detective skills had everyone come through this. Booth had said it was out of grace—grace of God, his exact words, but Tempe didn't agree.

She was almost relieved she hadn't found it before going to talk to Daisy the night Perotta had called—what a terrible ego trip she might have sent the intern on. But it was a comfort to have a written "confession" of sorts, one that nearly predicted the outcome of events. A perfect confession, though Ms. Wick hadn't signed her full name.

She read the letter again.

_Dearest Dr. Brennan,_

_This is a little note from me, for later, when this is all over, when I've been caught. I just want you to know how angry I was . . . well, I suspect you already know this, from all that has been done. All I wanted, Dr. Brennan, was to be at your side, working diligently, solving cases and putting faces to the victims, those skeletons in pieces, as broken in death as in life. I just wanted to please you; but first, I needed to cool my anger. I tried, believe me, but it burned and before I knew it my insides were charcoal and ash. Death. Red hot, I reached out, smoke wafting from my hands. But you still wouldn't see me. I had to make you pay; I had to watch you suffer, and laugh at all your tears and pain. Then, I knew when it was over and you had seen what I had done, all for you, you would respect me. You will admit aloud that you made a mistake when you picked others over me. I enjoyed myself, you should know that. I smiled during your periods of pain. I loved watching each of you burn in your own ways. I loved lurking about, essentially invisible, as you all ran about like children, in terror of some unknown specter with deadly intentions slanting in the shadows in some haunted house._

And its grotesque post script:

_No matter how hard I tried_

_A thin veil remained between_

_myself and The Infinite_

—_D._

At first, she wondered over what it was supposed to mean, if anything. She'd shown it Angela, after handing the original over to the FBI. Angela read the letter and paused, quirking an eyebrow at the letter, then at her best friend. "Brennan, why do you want keep this?" She hesitated. "I think I—No. You need to put this behind you."

"No, what?" Brennan prompted her.

Angela held the copy by her side. "Sweetie, please, you should throw this away."

Brennan took the paper from her. "Fine," she said curtly, "you don't know what it means either."

Angela sighed and took a deep breath. "I think it means that no matter what Daisy could do to get your attention, she knew she could never truly get your love. Your appreciation, your respect. All of the things she so desperately craved from you. It seemed like she wanted you to see her as your equal, and have your friendship. Or if not friendship, the thing most equivalent in a professional relationship. Maybe . . . what you have with Booth."

It took a few seconds to sink in. "Oh," Temperance breathed, letting the paper slip from her fingers.

"Are you okay?" Angela touched her arm lightly.

"I . . . believe I will be," Brennan said after another few seconds. "Thanks, Ang."

Angela smiled. "That's what I'm here for."

# # # # #

It was too early to state with accuracy that things were getting back to normal. But things _were_ settling down after all of the late October drama, now that the case was closed, Booth was safe and mending, and all the pranksters had been locked up with the keys thrown away.

"Vincent invited all of us to tour haunted houses next season," Zach told them a week later. "Since his favorite has been closed down indefinitely." A fact confirmed the previous day by the FBI.

"That sounds . . . awesome!" Hodgins said, his mouth splitting into a wide grin.

"I am supposing I will take him up on the offer," Zach continued, shrugging as Angela's jaw dropped. "It could breed fun."

"I'm in, man," Hodgins said, clapping Zach on the shoulder as he went in the direction of his lab. "What about you, Ang?"

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather steer clear of haunted houses next year," Angela said, patting Hodgins on the arm. It bewildered her that he could be excited—and not pissed—about returning to any haunted house or Halloween attraction that promised to be scary good. Not that she wanted to swear off all the revelries of Halloween forever; maybe just let the next one pass by with as little event as possible. "I'm all for staying in, watching a movie and passing out candy," she continued, adding after a brief pause, "unless we have to work."

The gleam was still in Jack's bright blue eyes. "But Ang, you're not afraid of the dark! Especially when you're carrying a stun gun—" He was grinning, still gleeful over what he had witnessed after escaping from his captor.

Angela sighed and crossed her arms. "It wasn't the way you make it sound, a big deal. You were yelling for me, and I was scared because you sounded scared!" She remembered herself leaving the wall and chasing Hodgins' voice, which was too far away from her. And then the monster appeared out of the dark—the monster from behind the bars that had taken a swipe at her earlier—blocking her way to Jack. With a growl, she lunged at him, not thinking about anything but finding Jack. Stun gun already in her hands, she charged it in motion and pushed it into the monster's burly chest.

When he fell, Angela saw Hodgins behind him, maskless, his eyes wild. "That was so cool!" he'd exclaimed, though she noticed his voice sounded wobbly.

"Jack? Where were you?" she asked as the two of them made their way to each other and quickly hugged. Hodgins held onto her tightly.

"One of them grabbed me," he'd murmured into her fake doll hair.

Startled, Angela pulled back. "What?" She looked for signs that he was making it up to cover for disappearing, but his face was tight with fear—a look she remembered seeing at a distance when she'd watched him nearly get run over. "Are you okay?"

He gave her a half smile. "I'm much better now."

They'd started making their way back, suddenly aware they had left Zach alone, not to mention Brennan and Booth, who were still somewhere close by but as yet unfound.

"What happened? How did you get away?" She took his hand and squeezed it hard, just to be assured she wouldn't lose him again.

"I—I'm not sure," Hodgins admitted, flustered. "I fought back but he had a good hold on me. But then, I don't know, he just let go."

"_There_ you two are," Zach accused, standing at the wall where they'd left him. He was still wearing his mask, but from his tone the two of them guessed his expression was anything but inscrutible.

Before he could continue, Hodgins held up his hands. "Excuse us, I was just taken hostage."

"Briefly," Angela added. "And I was taking out a monster."

"Come on," Hodgins said now, "the look on Zach's face was priceless. I mean, after we got him to take off the mask."

"He'd probably say the same about us when he told us he'd found Brennan and Booth. Maybe he should have been leading us through that place instead."

"My Angie took out Booth's kidnapper with a single blow," Hodgins said, smiling.

"Sweetie, it was 20,000 volts." She smiled anyway and shook her head.

# # # # #

**A few days before Halloween, one year later.**

Brennan rapped on Booth's doorframe, her purse laden with DVDs—a few recent releases, as well as a few classics—all suggestions from her friends and some very helpful, knowledgable employees at the video rental. Also in her purse, candy, two bags of microwave popcorn, plastic wine glasses and a couple fifths of Booth's favorite scotch. There was more variety—of both candy and liquor—at her apartment, but she wasn't positive he'd want to go. In fact, she wasn't positive he'd want to stay here, holed up in comfortable chairs in a conference room at the Jeffersonian.

Halloween was fast approaching, but Brennan—nor anyone else—had brought it up. But Brennan remembered that, a few days before last Halloween—only a day or two before Booth's kidnapping—Booth had suggested playfully that he needed to treat Brennan to a night of Halloween movies. Her own selection had almost been censored, because it seemed most of the movies about Halloween involved inhuman serial killers who murdered entire neighborhoods before being felled by an enterprising heroine. Until the sequel, that was.

Temperance did suppose that, since they had all lived their own Halloween "horror movie plot" last year, Booth would be even less willing to sit still for a few hours, numbly sipping scotch and feeding overly buttered popcorn balls into his mouth.

The truth was, though she would hardly ever admit it, was that she didn't want him out of her sight tonight unless he needed to use the men's room.

He waved her in, setting the phone back on its cradle. "Listen," he began, his low voice causing her to come closer to his desk. He pressed his lips together and looked away.

"Booth, what is it?" Brennan tried to wait patiently, but it was tough. Even though Booth had turned his eyes to the window, she could still see a tightness along his jaw line.

"I need to ask a favor of you, Bones," Booth hissed, still looking out the window. "I realize . . . last year . . ."

"Oh," Brennan interrupted, "you don't have to—"

Booth shook his head, bringing his face level with hers as he stood up. He hoped she wouldn't see him fidgeting. "No, no, it's not what you—please, just let me—"

Brennan nodded in silent apology.

"Last year, in the hospital, I know that I was yelling at you about . . . I didn't mean it. I wanted to tell you thank you, and instead I was—"

Brennan opened her mouth to speak, but then remembered she wasn't supposed to interrupt. She had only meant to remind him that when she'd thrown her arms around him and he leaned against her that he'd whispered "Thanks, Bones," in her ear.

"What I'm trying to ask is—will you come with me and Parker trick-or-treating this year?"

"This year?" Brennan gasped. "Trick-or-treating?" It wasn't what she'd been expecting.

"Yeah." Booth smiled. "Rebecca's fine with it; I guess she's got some party to go to. And I . . . I don't want to go alone."

"But you wouldn't be alone," Brennan pointed out. "You'd be with Parker."

Booth gave her a withering look. "Please don't make me beg, Bones. Unless you have big plans too?"

There was the annual charity ball, but she couldn't say, if she were to be metaphorical, that her heart was in it this year. And she could hardly imagine asking Booth to make an appearance at the ball; he might do it, but she decided not to bring it up. "No," she said, smiling. "I'm all yours."

Booth nodded, relieved. "Thanks, Bones."

Taking a breath, she decided to ask. "Booth? Will you do something for me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "What's that, Bones?"

"Come home with me. Right now."

Booth grinned, looking boyish. "What?"

"Come on, come home with me. I'm serious," Brennan said. She walked around the desk and tugged on his sleeve.

Booth laughed. "Okay, okay, yes!"

A short time later, they were comfortable in Brennan's warm, surprisingly cozy apartment.

Booth's eyes went to her overflowing purse. "What's that you've got there, Bones? You rob a video store on the way over here? And a liquor store?" He chuckled.

Brennan sighed. "No, I did not rob a video or a liquor store! I paid with a Visa." She dropped her purse on the counter and started unloading it.

"Did you get anything good? Please don't tell me you brought the original _Mummy_?"

Brennan stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. "No, but I did think about it. That is a classic. And it's movie I loved as a child. I was talked out of it by a clerk who said an old black and white would hardly be scary enough, what with today's horror culture."

Booth grinned. "Get it all out, I want to see what you got!"

Brennan laughed. Booth got up and stood with her at the kitchen's island, looking over her choices, or rather other people's suggestions. "This is sweet! We're going to watch all of these? Will you protect me from the dark, Bones? What goes bump in the night and all that?"

Brennan nodded, looking over Booth's face. His eyes were twinkling but there was a touch of sadness or fear on his lips. She leaned over and kissed that corner of his jaw that still twitched occasionally with sensitivity from where he'd be punched too hard. After a year, all his physical wounds were healed but he still possessed the nervous twitches, the shakes, and he could be jumpy. Ignoring his wince, she placed a soft kiss on his lips. Brennan knew that he was still more than capable of taking care of himself and that he knew it as well as she did, but she said anyway gently, "Of course I will. I always will."

Booth closed his eyes. Her gesture and sentiment relaxed him. Horror movies had never been scary, haunted houses or hayrides or funhouses all child's play. They all still were, he reflected, even more so since he had lived and survived real horrors, not just on Halloween, either. And when he opened his eyes, Bones was still here, watching him intently with her beautiful, serious eyes. He took her hand and grabbed a DVD at random. "Come on, let's pop this in. You take a seat on the couch and I'm make the popcorn. What do you want to drink?"

"Booth," Brennan said softly, freezing him to the spot.

He didn't want her to do this, stir up the past. He had survived last Halloween because she and the squints had not given up. Booth knew that Bones would never give up on him. She had even dragged him here to cheer him up so he wouldn't have to spend the anniversary alone. Brennan surprised him when she squeezed his hand.

"Seeley, you're never alone," Brennan said, still fixing him with her serious blue gaze. "I meant what I said—I will always—"

Booth smiled and squeezed her hand back. "Let's start a new tradition, Bones. Make every Halloween from here on out a better one. What do you say? I mean, it's already better so far."

Brennan nodded. She refrained from pointing out that it was not Halloween yet, and thus, anything could still happen.

Not that she would let it.

They settled in, sharing popcorn and beer, watching the opening scenes of one of last year's scariest movies, or so the box advertised. And in a few days, they would go out into the dark, watching over Parker as he eagerly went house to house, adding to his candy collection. Brennan sighed and leaned her head against Booth's shoulder. Last year she had almost said no to a night of this, but she hadn't because she wasn't given the chance. This year she didn't want to be anywhere but here, with Booth, both hunkering down against the cold, enjoying frivolity like kids donning costumes. Enjoying each other's company. They'd earned this.

**The End**


End file.
